Norwegian Wood Film-Sylvia

After I watched Norwegian Wood, I felt a quiet but deep sadness in my heart. The movie is not fast( actually, it is slow). It is about two hours long, but it felt like three to me because the pace is very slow. The scene is quiet, but the emotions are very strong. Compared to the novel, the movie feels more fragmented. But still, I can feel that all the characters want to be understood and loved, yet they do not know how to get close to one another.

I think the movie helped me feel Naoko’s pain more clearly than the book. Even when she is with others, she still feels very lonely. The actress who plays Naoko is very close to how I imagined her. She is gentle and quiet. The movie shows her weak heart more clearly. She cannot leave her past behind. Her pain made me feel very sad for her and made me realize that some pain cannot be healed by time. Naoko feels like she is always awake but still trapped in the past. Midori is very different. She is bright and full of life. Even her clothes have more color. 

I think this movie shows mental health in a very real way. Some people look fine on the outside, but inside, they are already broken. The movie does not show pain in a loud or dramatic way. It shows pain in a quiet and calm way, so we slowly feel the heavy emotions. The camera and colors also left a strong impression on me. The movie tone is closer to the colors like grey and dark blue. This creates a feeling of loneliness, quiet, and sadness, and it matches the characters’ hearts. Many long shots are used, so the story does not rush. We have time to feel the emotions. I also really like the natural scenes. They look beautiful but also empty and lonely. When the characters stand in nature, they look very small. This kind of shows how small people feel when they face life, love, and loss. The music is also very soft and quiet. It does not try to make us cry suddenly, instead it slowly builds the feeling. This quiet pace makes the whole movie feel sad yet peaceful at the same time. After the movie ended, I felt speechless and a little heavy inside. I actually do not like the whole story at all, but I cannot deny that it is a beautiful movie. It reminds me of some memories that cannot stay, but they change our lives deeply and implicitly, and even sad experiences can become an important part of who we are.

My thoughts on the Norwegian Wood Film

It is quite challenging to bring a novel such as Norwegian Wood to film. The beauty of the novel lies in the small details, introspective monologues, references, and subtleties that cannot be captured in a movie with a runtime of only two hours. I applaud Tran Anh Hung for his work, and understand how hard it would be to make choices and cuts to what was deemed important. I felt the storyline was on par with what I had imagined, but I couldn't see the novel's small details that I cherished. I would have loved to see more of the interactions between Nagasawa and Stormtrooper, and the personal thoughts that Toru had in his mind. I felt that the movie was far too focused on the events rather than the internal struggles that were so apparent in the novel.

However, for somebody who has yet to read the novel, I would say that they would appreciate this movie and all that it has to offer. Despite its setbacks as far as the accuracy of the story and details go, I deeply enjoyed the atmosphere. I tried not to get too caught up in the details, because I knew naturally, the story would deviate from what I had imagined in my mind. As far as aesthetics go, they captured the style of the times very well. I enjoyed seeing the clothing worn by Toru, his long-sleeved collared shirts with intricate designs, and his tight flared pants. Naoko is seen with her simple clothing and calm, neutral colors. Additionally, the interior of the rooms was very well designed. Colorful wallpapers, posters lining the walls, and leather couches that exuded the styles of the late 1960s. The cinematography was great, especially the scenes in nature, such as the shot with Toru in Naoko walking through the large field of grass. The lighting and colors were bright and exuberant when they needed to be, and soft and mellow at other times.

Simply put, I tried to take the movie and the novel each as its own respective work. The novel gave a slow and quiet narrative, intricate subtleties, while the movie captured the vivid moments of beauty contrasted with the somber melancholy mood. Each medium is different, and I think that they each offer different things that the other cannot.

- Alex McBrier

Tony Takitani is a Hard Watch - Khadeja Usmani

I chose to watch the movie adaptation of TonyTakitani because I really enjoyed reading the story. The story
kept me captivated and thoroughly engaged.
However, the film did not hold my interest in the same way. I believe this was due to two deliberate choices
made by the filmmakers.

The first is the choice of color grading. The entire movie essentially functions in shades of gray and muted
tones of blue and brown. I am not the biggest fan of oversaturated color grading; however, the monotony
of colors is not captivating to the eye at all. For a brief period, there are more vibrant colors, especially
green, which represent how Tony’s wife made him feel during their time together. The viewer gets a sense
of fulfillment and love in their relationship through the stylistic color choices. This is accompanied by
a stagnant, lethargic musical choice for the majority of the movie. Yet again, it picks up in scenes where
Tony and his wife are together–and culminates in one scene where they are both watching his father play
jazz. This left an impression on me because I perceive jazz as the most lively genre of music.

Ultimately, the choice of coloring and music aids the viewer in feeling the bleakness and depression that accompany Tony both before he met his wife and after her passing.  However, this makes it difficult to enjoy the film, as I felt I had to push myself to stay engaged.  I'm not sure if anyone else felt this way while watching, or if it really moved them, but I personally found that the choices made didn't translate into an enjoyable viewing experience. 

The Lack of Blank Space in Altman's The Long Goodbye - Cora

After watching The Long Goodbye By Robert Altman, I realized how important the “in between” moments were in setting up the mood in the novel. 

 

Specifically, in the movie adaptation, the plot moved a lot faster than in the book. For example, it is established at the very beginning of the film that Marlowe has a close relationship with Lennox. We don’t see Marlowe first encountering Lennox for the first time at the party and later develop a comradere with him through several encounters. As audiences, we just know from a single line of dialogue that they are friends, and the kind where one is just willing to drive another from LA to Tijuana no question asked. In general, the events just take place in the movie with less of a turn around time. We don’t see the pauses between the plot points. While the narrative style in the movie seems more efficient and better captures the audience’s attention, I think the blank moments in the books do a better job at setting the gritty, dark mood in the books. Because the characters seem to speak less and spend more time alone, we notice the distance between the characters more. The silences and pauses defined the hardboiled mood in the novel, and the limitations of storytelling through film did not completely capture that. 

 

A large part of this lack of blank space in the movie, in a sense, can also be seen from Marlowe’s characterization in the movie. In the book, we know Marlowe as being a somewhat cynical and sarcastic character. But we learn about his tru personality through the way he thinks, precisely in those moments of pause where he sits alone in his apartment or drives alone in his car. This is not the case in the movie. Marlowe is still a lonner in the movie. However, in order to convey his sarcastic personality, we get a lot of scenes where Marlowe just mutters sarcastic comments to himself. The audience cannot hear the actor’s thoughts, so he’s required to speak them out loud in the film. I feel like that takes away from the guardedness in his personality described in the books. 

Regardless of that, I really enjoyed the music that is used in the film. Specifically, I think the song “The Long Goodbye” perfectly captures the smokey and melancholic mood of Chandler’s story. Notably, John Williams is the composer for the song. This jazzy piece feels very different from some of his more famous film scores (such as the ones he wrote for Jurasic Park and Star Wars,) which I find very interesting.

Murakami and The Importance of Sex... or not? - Kyla

 In high school, I was introduced to a book (How to Read Literature Like a Professor by Thomas Foster)  that outlined how different symbols and themes function within novels. Two chapters involved sex, or rather the allusion to sex, and what purpose it serves in literature. Because Murakami writes so frequently about sex, these two chapters seem particularly important in analyzing the purpose of why Murakami writes explicitly. The book

How to Read Literature Like a Professor offers a few reasons for what the reason behind sex scenes in literature could be: “pleasure, sacrifice, submission, rebellion, resignation, supplication, domination, enlightenment,” or just plain “pornography”. Is Murakami’s writing just pornography or does the incorporation of sex have a wider purpose? 

The answer is kind of both, based on the interview we talked about in class, Murakami doesn’t see many of his scenes as explicitly sexual. In fact, talking about sex often reveals a new perspective for characters’ desires or motives. For instance, in 1Q84, Tengo talks about Fuka-eri’s breasts in an attempt to convince her to wear a revealing shirt to an interview. Tengo’s motive, while inherently sexual, was not based on his own sexual desires but rather his desire for her novel to sell well. This interaction, among others, foreshadows the success of Fuka-eri’s novel and insinuates the captivation that she holds on her audience. It ultimately, like Foster mentions, expresses enlightenment of the people (the response of the book selling is people learning about aspects of the “other” world in this novel). 

However, unlike this scene, Murakami also writes sex simply for the purpose of writing sex. It is extremely hard to prescribe a meaning to the “whale penis” in Murakami’s, A Wild Sheep Chase. It is possible to serve as a symbol for loss and detachment, although I find this rather hard to believe as the penis is so random in the novel. It also does not seem to make further appearances towards the end of the book. Additionally, the relationship between Boku and his first girlfriend mentions sex and how meaningless it was to him in contrast to sex with his new girlfriend. But this also does not seem to have as striking of a meaning as sex in his other novels. 

All in all, I think it is rather interesting to analyze these scenes as more than what they are. Many of them are written very strangely and awkwardly, but this should be a red flag that they could mean more! 

The shadows of A Hard-Boiled Wonderland and A City and Its Uncertain Walls

 The idea of having your shadow removed or simply being without a shadow is a strange prospect. Your shadow cannot be physically removed, and it is not at all plausible that one could wake up and find that they no longer cast a shadow. However, this does not concern Murakami. He does not view shadows as something we just cast or create based on our position in relation to light. He seems to view shadows more metaphysically, and the purpose that shadows serve in these two novels is meant to tell us something about the town. In both novels, Boku’s shadow is removed upon entering the town. It is explained that no one in the town has a shadow and that he will be fully integrated into the town when his shadow dies. So what really are these shadows meant to represent?

Having read the entirety of Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, I am going to jump to a conclusion to answer the questions of shadows. This conclusion requires a much more thought-out piece of writing to provide evidence of its validity, but considering this is a blog post and I don’t necessarily want to spoil the book for those who have yet to read it, I will just make my claim and hope you all believe me. 

My claim about a Hard-Boiled Wonderland – and most likely A City and Its Uncertain Walls, although I haven’t read it yet – is that the town is a physical projection of Bokus' subconscious. It is the world within his mind. I am confident in this claim because of how a Hard Boiled Wonderland ends, but I believe there are some signs to allude to this being true in A City and Its Uncertain Walls as well. Now, what does this mean in my venture to define Murakami’s shadows? 

Well, in Hard-Boiled Wonderland, it is made pretty clear that those without shadows are also without “mind.” I think a distinction needs to be made here between “mind” and the subconscious that I am attributing to the town. The subconscious is something that we are unaware of, which is why I believe that Boku mostly doesn’t recognize anyone in the town. He has likely seen them before, and they bear some significance to his life, but he is not conscious of it. On the other hand, it seems that the mind is to represent the consciousness. The ability to care, opine, love, and reminisce all seem to be absent in this town devoid of shadows. To me, this makes sense: the separation of the conscious and subconscious mind. This is why anyone entering the town must have their shadow – their consciousness – removed. We as conscious beings will never be able to peer down into the depths of our subconscious and come back up; if we attempt to journey to the town of the subconscious, we must lose our conscious mind in the process. 

Isaac Robillard

Thoughts on Norwegian Wood Upon my Second Reading - Ayushi

This blog post will read less like an analysis and more like a stream of consciousness. I don’t think you can read Haruki Murakami without reflexively introspecting on your own life, mind, and surroundings. Here are some intimations on how I’ve been understanding Murakami’s characters (thus, if I may, even Murakami) by paying more attention to how I feel in the operations and occurrences of my own life. 

I sipped my morning coffee and got to thinking. I’m trying to understand a writer who is famously known for writing postmodern literature & the magical realism genre. Simultaneously, these narratives are written on the backs of rational, almost mundane characters and themes. This is why I believe that Murakami is one of the most contradictory authors I have had the confusing pleasure of reading. 

Norwegian Wood makes sense. Until it doesn’t. It doesn’t make sense. Until it does.
Did Murakami do this on purpose? Did he just write and write or did he have a particular purpose? He challenged my personal notion that all writers write with intention; that is the whole point. Even if there were multiple intentions, there would be a theme they converged to. 

Interestingly, this seems to be the least ‘Murakami’ of all the books and excerpts we’ve previously read, but somehow the most confusing one of all. I was bookmarking pages and highlighting lines that I knew meant something, but  I’m not sure what. Essentially, I was operating with the same vague intent as him—with definite meaning that was unbeknownst to myself. Maybe that’s it. 

The multiple perspectives we discussed in class felt like we were desperately, almost madly, trying to solve the mystery of Murakami’s intention. The red yarn became increasingly more tangled as we swerved from one clue to the other. 

Personally, the red yarn led here— to one of the most immersive moments of the class so far. When I wrapped a piece of cucumber in a sheet of seaweed, then dipped it in soy sauce. Toru repeated this inherently mechanical process multiple times, which would’ve been mundane or banal if it wasn’t in this context: while he was, not for the first time, adjacent to death (Midori’s father). A mechanical gesture, made touching and complex given the situation. He said that cucumber tastes of life, so I savored it—the harmonious crunching and crinkle of each bite, the lasting note of umami from the soy sauce. I tried to taste every bite the way Toru did. They way Midori’s father might have. In this way, I felt closer to Toru and to Murakami, tasting the same thing they did. In a similar way, was Toru constantly getting closer to the dead through their shared experiences? '

 

Music, Midori, Memories, & Murakami - Ayushi

Midori’s capacity for openness and spontaneity is emphasized in the scene while she and Toru are watching her neighbor’s house burn, and she doesn't heed Toru’s suggestion to “gather your valuables together and get ready to evacuate this place,”. Instead she banters with him and solidifies her decision to stay by casually stating that “if something bad happens, we can think about it then”. Midori proceeds to sing/strum five folk and pop songs including “Lemon Tree”, “Puff,” “Five Hundred Miles”, “Where have all the flowers gone?”, and “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore”. The domestic, sometimes naïve, repertoire obviously contrasts with the dramatic, yet cathartic, visual of the burning house. The songs are simple cultural anchors that Midori uses while witnessing something beyond ordinary; they are keeping and forming memories through music, even amid disruption. The juxtaposition here makes the scene feel like a memory that is in formation, and music is the vehicle that mediates how the event will be remembered by Toru while he narrates the story. 

 

A psychological reading on ch.3 of Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World - Ayushi

Ch.3 is when the reader understands what Murakami is subtly suggesting: the narrator's mind isn't a neutralspace, it is constructed. The slow elevator ride feels like a mental descent into a dissociative place where time stretches, awareness is slightly blurred, and you're suspended between two states. The scientist bombards him with information and eccentric behavior, forming a power imbalance so Boku becomes hyper suggestible. The lab can be read as a metaphor for the narrator’s engineered mind, because the scientist explains that the narrator’s brain functions have been modified. the lab is messy yet highly engineered and reflects the core psychological revelation of the chapter: Boku's sense of identity and self may be part;y designed by someone else

Food As Feeling

If there is any Murakami story that makes the emotional function of food obvious, it would be "The Second Bakery Attack," where hunger becomes a sort of tension, dissatisfaction and symbolism for marital unease. The couple's overwhelming craving is used as a way to externalize the hidden emotions they do not verbalize which is absurd, but clear symbolism Murakami utilizes to express characters' feelings. What is interesting to me is that after noticing this dynamic in the Bakery Attacks, I began to see them elsewhere in Murakami's short stories.

In “Barn Burning,” smoked salmon, roast beef sandwiches, and blueberry ice cream reflects the couple’s inappropriately smooth surface. Food is excessive because the characters are withholding something. Hospitality becomes a mask.

In “Sleep,” the narrator’s ritualistic consumption of brandy + chocolate + precise plates translate her emotional void into appetite. She eats more precisely when she feels the least human. The food becomes the shape that her suppressed inner life takes.

Even “Samsa in Love” uses awkward eating to reveal Gregor’s fragility. His clumsy bites embody his confusion more clearly than any dialogue.

Lastly, in "The Year of Spaghetti," a singular, repetitive dish is framed as a portrait of loneliness, where the narrator cooks spaghetti obsessively because he has no one to share it with.

I just noticed across multiple texts that Murakami’s characters don’t always say what they feel, but the food they eat or make sometimes act as an avenue for self expression when things are difficult to verbalize. These are just a few examples of many, but I am curious to discuss if this is a pattern or just a coincidence.

-Josh K.

Choose the Thing Without Form

It dawned on me that we never found the meaning behind the excerpt discussing choosing something without form versus something with form in Murakami’s short story “Chance Traveller”. The passage is as follows, 

“‘I'm in no position to hand down any advice,’ he said, ‘but there's a rule I follow when I don't know what to do.’ ‘A rule?’ ‘If you have to choose between something that has form and something that doesn't, go for the one without form. That's my rule. Whenever I run into a wall I follow that rule, and it always works out. Even if it's hard going at the time.”

At first glance, I was led to believe that this simply meant when navigating difficult obstacles during life, it is wiser to choose the less restrictive path for yourself. However, after doing some research on the internet I stumbled upon a similar quote from Murakami’s South of the Border, West of the Sun, that discusses a similar notion regarding form. Murakami writes, “Things that have form will all disappear. But certain feelings stay with us forever.” Reading this could give context to the excerpt from “Chance Traveler” and inspire a new meaning. 

By this frame of reference, when Murakami refers to something with form, he is referring to tangible things which exist in the real world. On the other hand, “certain feelings stay with us forever”, implies that objects without form, including memory, emotions, thoughts, and feelings, remain parts of us forever. As for the portion of the text talking about running into a wall, I think when people find themselves in tough situations, they like to be alone with their thoughts and memories can provide a positive mental escape.

Personally, I do not feel that there needs to be an answer to what Murakami is saying, but I do enjoy thinking about it and find the connection between these pieces of work to be persuasive.

- Alex McBrier

Is Murakami's Work Autobiographical? - ALEX G

Is Murakami’s Work Autobiographical?

As a painter, I am frequently asked if my work is autobiographical. In the past, I believed that it was

possible to fully remove the self from the artistic process and capture the emotions and actions of others.

Now that I’m a few years older, I have come to realize that it is next to impossible to do this. All art 

includes a piece of the artist, even if done unintentionally. Every painting I make is a map of my own 

feelings and experiences, expressed in the form of another person/people. The way I see the world is the

way that only I see the world. In that way, every piece of artwork, whether a painting, a piece of music, 

some kind of writing, or anything else, contains a fragment of the creator within. Every art form explores

this differently. In music, even if a musician aims to replicate another musician's style completely, there is

an element of uniqueness in their composition that makes it their own. This can get a bit abstract with art 

forms like music and visual art, but writing can often give readers a clearer idea of what the narrator is 

thinking/feeling. However, this can easily get muddled and speculative. Reading Lolita, a reader could 

generalize that Nabokov was a pedophile. While never confirmed, he was revealed to have been molested

by his uncle at a young age. So, it could be argued that he was trying to unpack his trauma through writing.

Others online argue that he was indeed a pedophile. Many such controversial novels leave readers 

speculating about the writer's personal life.

Murakami is a great example of a writer whose writing appears to be autobiographical. Whether it is or not 
is unclear. However, I am theorizing that his writing is indeed autobiographical, despite his claims that his
characters almost never stem from his lived experiences. I am not arguing that he is consciously lying, but
that he is unaware of how his lived experiences affected him on a subconscious level, and they leak into his
writing. 

The main argument for this point would be that the archetype a majority of his male characters seem to 
follow: the unnamed passive floater, drifting through life, letting things happen to him, instead of the other
way around. Could this just be a creative choice? Sure, but not necessarily. Anyway, treat this as a simple
thought experiment. Back to my main point, every idea in one's mind, whether original or not, is filtered
through our mind. It becomes our own in a very special way that underscores the individuality of being
a human being. In this regard, even if his ideas come from outside sources, they are filtered through his
experiences and feelings on particular matters. Hence, his stereotypical depictions of women as mothering
savior figures, or some kind of muse existing to please the male character and inspire him on his quest. 

Again, not every text falls into this category, but much of what I’ve read has. I have a very hard time 
believing there isn’t some perceived truth to what he is writing about- maybe he objectified women 
through pedestalization when he was younger. Maybe, he still does now. Hard to say. What I can say is 
that the way a majority of his writing over the span of decades seems to present this recurring idea of the
savior/muse woman who serves to please is a very telling detail to note over such a long career. His denial
of knowing about the controversy about his female characters suggests that either he does know and does
not see the error in his portrayal of women, or perhaps he just believes that most men carry this kind of 
misogyny. Either way, it is troubling. Is this all a complete fact? I would need a lot more time to research
and prove this, or even come close to doing so. This topic would be more suitably analyzed in a 10-20 
page research paper, but for now, this is an interesting exploration into how writing trends may lead 
readers to assume personal details about particular writers. 

Murakami's Allegory of the Cave - Anika

    When reading "The City and Its Uncertain Walls," one line I found interesting was “Maybe those driven outside the wall are the real people, and those who remain here are the shadows” (Ch. 20). This line immediately reminded me of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. In Plato’s story, people are chained inside a cave, only able to see the shadows of real objects. The prisoners mistake the shadows for reality because they’ve never seen anything else. When one prisoner escapes, he’s blinded by the sunlight at first but eventually realizes the outside world is the real one. The journey into the light represents enlightenment, or more specifically the  process of finding truth after living in an illusion.

    Murakami reverses this logic: his protagonist steps into the cave, or rather a walled city where people’s shadows are stripped away. Without their shadows, people lose the emotional aspects of what it means to be human, trapped in a world that looks orderly but, as the narrator’s shadow later says, “it’s all just an illusion” (Ch. 24). The city is “full of contradictions,” built in a way that removes anything that doesn’t fit its logic. The inner workings of the city only appear to make sense to people on the inside. In that way, the people inside the wall are like Plato’s prisoners, mistaking what they see for truth because it’s all they’ve ever known. 

For both Plato and Murakami, truth seems to exist beyond the wall or cave, on the outside. However, what’s different is the choice the characters make once they realize it. Plato’s freed prisoner leaves the cave permanently, even though it’s painful. Murakami’s narrator, on the other hand, understands that the outside world might be “real,” yet he chooses to stay within the city’s illusion. He chooses to stay because he comes to the acceptance that truth isn’t always something we can live with.

    So instead of rejecting Plato, Murakami questions him in a way. His story suggests that seeing the truth and living with it are two different things. So even though the narrator in Murakami finds the exit, he chooses not to leave.

Tech. Predictions in "Johnny Mnemonic"

(Disclaimer: This post does not mean I like Elon Musk as a person. Please don't cancel me!) 

I don't have a lot to say about what we've been talking about recently, but as a tech fanatic I think it is interesting how William Gibson predicted some (currently charged) topics in the current tech. realm via his short story "Johnny Mnemonic". 

In the story, Johnny — the narrator, who goes by the alias Eddie Bax at the start of the story — can store vast amounts of sensitive data in his head via some technical interface... making him a target of the Yakuza. This instantly reminded me of Elon Musk's Neuralink brain implant. The goal(s) of Musk's Neuralink is to restore brain function to those who are neurologically impaired, but they also note the potential to sync their BCI (brain-computing interfaces) with AI and computers in the long term.

Gibson's story was both surreal and dystopian to me, and underscores the (very real) discussion that educators and researchers are having in terms of the ethical, economic, social, and human implications of AI and data use. I can't imagine what readers thought about this in 1981... they were probably both freaked out and amazed at the same time. It was just interesting for me to see how much we've progressed as a society in roughly 40 years. 

Also, Musk has noted previously how Sci-Fi has impacted him in his creations. Here are some links some articles if you're interested:  

https://www.tbsnews.net/feature/panorama/culture-sci-fi-series-shaped-elon-musks-ideas-133537

https://www.cnbc.com/2017/06/06/elon-musk-says-this-science-fiction-classic-changed-his-life.html

- Max

Ghosts and Magical Realism Murakami - Mark

     One of Murakami's short stories that stood out to me is Ghosts of Lexington, because it explores yet another way Murakami explores one of his main genres of writing: Magical Realism. Magical Realism is a genre that makes supernatural characters or elements seem normal despite them being very much a surprise to the reader, and Murakami has done this extensively in all his works by having his detached Protagonist and mundane worlds. One interesting thing that surprised me with Ghosts of Lexington is Murakami's portrayal of ghosts, because they contradict what we normally see with ghosts.

    In Ghost's of Lexington, the narrator is house-sitting for his friend Casey and it seems normal at first with the narrator doing basic tasks, such as making coffee and listening to Jazz, but things take an initially dark turn when he wakes up to hear loud noises as if other people broke into Casey's home. As a reader I expected something bad to happen especially with Murakami's history of incorporating curses, monsters, or sad elements into his writing, but as the narrator discovers there were ghosts, instead of being shocked or attacked by them they just seem to be ghosts living as normal people. The ghosts weren't scary or monsters but were instead just like normal people, just disconnected from the narrator. It's interesting to see how the ghosts here are sort of part of the world that is Casey's House, and yet again the narrator is a loner in the sense that he is detached from this group of Ghosts and not interacting with them. The story highlights just how mundane the supernatural can be and as a reader it was intriguing how the plot surprised me with that, but its a classic Murakami thing to do.

Worldbuilding in Murakami - Oscar

One question I keep coming back to while reading through Murakami's myriad works is, how much of his writing is intentional, and how much is incidental? It's one thing to describe "the real world" in relation to characters and their actions within a story, and it's another to be able to create and project such surreal elements so intertwined with those characters, and subsequently the message he's trying to send. 

In more fantastical genres, it often happens where the story is built for the world rather than the other way around. You'd have a castle where some drama unfolds, and there isn't a second thought to the material the walls are made out of or why the stairs lead to a basement - it just does, that's how the thing was built, go back to the vampires fighting over their goblet in the ballroom. The characters in these stories could not exist without the stage they play a part in. With Murakami, however, it often occurs to me that the opposite is true. If we weren't puzzling over Boku's mental and emotional journey in A Wild Sheep Chase, it could be that the spire-like climb was just a normal hill. No loose gravel, foreboding clouds, or stormy peak, just a leisurely path to the pastures. 

While reading The City and Its Uncertain Walls, I can't help but question the purpose of everything described. Did Murakami paint a wide swathe that eventually resolved itself into the Town, wherein Boku struggles through his loneliness, or did he create bespoke areas specific to aspects of that struggle? The Wall is perhaps an obvious one, but what about the Worker's District and its deserted factories? Did Murakami meticulously plan out each and every detail, or did he simply let his writing carry him on its way?

Baptism

When I read the passage about the rain "falling on the sea" in The City and Its Uncertain Walls, the first thing that immediately popped into my mind was baptism. The narrator said that whenever he thinks of permanence, he automatically pictures rain pouring down on the ocean, which made me think that the sea is being constantly baptized by the water from the sky. The narrator points out that the sea stays unchanged even though the rain keeps replacing the water in the ocean. This mirrors the nature of baptism, where once someone is baptized, they are permanently “purified.” Viewing this in the context of baptism, the connection between the rain and his desire for a permanent relationship with the girl becomes clearer, since both the rain scene and the emotional connection, once they become permanent, can last foreverr. What I found most intriguing, however, was the moment when the imagery of the rain falling on the sea fails him. When the narrator tried to suppress his sexual thoughts about the girl by visualizing the rain scene, it completely backfired on him. Unfortunately for him, this imagery of the rain (that should function as spiritual cleansing, just like how the rain washes away the sea’s impurities) does not affect the very desires he’s been trying to suppress. Joline

Magical Realism and A Wild Sheep Chase

The first Murakami novel we read for this course was A Wild Sheep Chase, and though I was somewhat familiar with Murakami beforehand, I think I was still taken off guard by the unconventional and unpredictable narrative of A Wild Sheep Chase. Murakami's ability to create atmosphere and seamlessly weave mystical elements into ordinary life left a lasting impression on me. I often tend to enjoy magical realism as a genre; in A Wild Sheep Chase, Murakami transitions between magic and real with so much fluidity that it felt almost impossible to distinguish the two at times, and this was an enjoyable experience as a reader.

I find that magical realism allows authors to draw out deeper emotions and explore more complicated themes when they are not solely limited to reality. Murakami's magical realism in A Wild Sheep Chase, to me, seemed almost hidden at first glance — sometimes I didn't pick up on these supernatural elements when I first read the book, only to discover a new perspective after we discussed the readings in class. I feel like this gives Murakami novels this perpetual feeling of plausible deniability, where you linger in this realm of wondering what is or isn't real. I think, as a reader, this makes me question what I've read more strongly, and also allows for greater emotional ups and downs as you read the novel.

In the end, what stands out to me most is how deliberately unresolved Murakami’s world feels. His use of magical realism is not just a stylistic choice, but a way of keeping readers actively engaged, forcing us to fill in the gaps. It's been over a month since we read A Wild Sheep Chase, and yet I keep coming back to it — I think this interpretive freedom, a fingerprint of Murakami's work, is a big part of why his stories linger long after reading them.

- Ananya

Absurdism and Murakami

When reading Murakami, I often feel baffled by the nonchalance of Boku, or any of his protagonists, for that matter. While narrators are not complete outcasts and operate somewhat normally (friends, school, career, romance), they do not adhere to a strong set of morals, nor do they react in the face of weirdness. The Murakami narrator seems to embrace what’s thrown at them and never denies themselves pleasure, even if the situation is morally grey.

To name a few examples of this nonchalance and amorality:

- Toru in Norwegian Wood sleeps with his dead best friend’s girlfriend, and engages in questionable sexual escapades with Nagasawa. He doesn’t seem baffled when Reiko tells him she slept with her underage student. He doesn’t weep when his friends commit suicide. He has sex with his dead girlfriend’s best friend.

- The protagonist in Sleep has a tight-knit family, but keeps a huge secret from them: that she doesn’t sleep and feels increasingly changed by the experience. She doesn’t seek a doctor’s attention like a worried patient, but instead relishes the opportunity to each chocolate and read books.

- Boku in A Wild Sheep Chase quits his job to go on the hunt for a sheep and doesn’t seem to think it’s all that crazy — he also doesn’t react when his girlfriend leaves him forever. 

This behavior is all very consistent with the tenets of absurdism. Absurdists believe the trials and triumphs that come throughout one’s life are all equally meaningless. But instead of nihilists, who believe there is no point to living at all, absurdists embrace the journey. If everything is absurd, they say,  let us find enjoyment and connection in the insanity. If it's meaningless, let us create meaning. This is what the Murakami narrator does: their grey morality is absurdist in that the narrator recognizes the meaninglessness of their actions, and the nonchalance is because they would never expect anything less than the nonsensical. Boku is willing to take advantage of a strange situation: listen to a nice record and drink a glass of wine while he’s stranded alone in a snowstorm. 

Camus questions: What if Sisyphus were happy pushing the boulder up the hill for eternity? What if he found pleasure in the journey, even though he was condemned to it? I think Murakami's narrators take joy in the absurd worlds they’re placed in, the tasks required of them, and the strange people they meet. They always find their pleasure, even if it ends badly.

-Ayjia

Reflection of Japanese culture in Murakami

Murakami’s writing is not the typical Japanese literature in the sense that it is much influenced by Western literature and incorporates American pop culture into the daily lives of the protagonists. However, even through the old jazz records and German novels, a big part of Japanese culture is reflected in Murakami’s writings. 

A big portion of the modern Japanese entertainment/media contains escapism. Escape from reality into “isekai” is so popular in anime and manga, that it became a sub-genre of fiction. “Isekai” would be directly translated into “a different world”, and there even is a commonly used medium to go to this world, an “isekai truck”, which hits the protagonist suddenly and when they wake up, they are in a completely different world. Though Murakami does not use the concept of “isekai” or the truck, his story does involve a lot of shifts into somewhere separate from reality. “The Wild Sheep Chase” and “Kafka on the Shore” reflect this, as they go into the mountains or forests, which act as an entrance to a dream world. Escapism in Japanese media is not just a common trope, but it is symbolic of the young Japanese generation and their wish for escapism.

The second popular trend in Japanese media is the male fantasy, where an ordinary, almost asexual(or his main motives are not sex) male protagonist attracts multiple beautiful women, who all try to seduce him. Although this may be a common fantasy among many, it does definitely appear much more often in Japanese media. This includes a big number of Murakami’s fictions. Most of his works tend to have a male protagonist, and surrounding them are mysterious, eccentric, or depressed women who seduce him, or are described in a sexual manner. They do end up sleeping with the protagonist anyways.

The pretty common trend of young generations in Japan, the social isolation, is also reflected in Murakami’s work subtly. The general tendency to do things alone, like go to bars, go travel, eat alone in restaurants and so on, are a big part of the protagonist’s life. Unlike the Western culture of seldomly doing things alone, the protagonist of Murakami’s world does more things alone than with others.

Being so used to the country’s media and culture, I never viewed Murakami’s work as a reflection of Japanese culture or trends, but reading Murakami’s books again in America, it is clearer to see that Murakami’s work contains many ideologies and the lifestyles of Japan.

Yewon Yun

Why Magical Realism? Why so vague?

At this point in the semester, we’ve pretty much established that Murakami often writes stories that lie in the genre of magical realism. His blurring of what is conventionally real and the "other" world shrouds his stories in a cloud of intrigue and mystery. Perhaps because of this, I often find his stories delightfully confusing. There never seems to be one clear cut definition for what his books and stories try to say, and often it makes equal sense to analyze a story in completely different directions. I find myself wondering why he writes in this specific style. On the one hand, if he is simply interested in creating a magical world, then there’s no reason why he should always ground magical elements of his stories in a reality similar to ours. He can simply create a world of fantasy and let all the magic unfold. On the other hand, if he is trying to use magical elements as symbols for a larger message he wishes to deliver, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t just use plain old symbolism. Why make it magical? 

In a way, magical realism only enhances the inherent vagueness of Murakami's works. It almost seems like Murakami wants his stories to be vague. He never makes explicit references to history (except perhaps Mishima in A Wild Sheep Chase), and his characters are almost never distinguishable by social class, appearances or even arguably age. Not only is the message of his stories never clear, but also the readers are never certain about the nature of the protagonist’s reality because of magical realism. Anything could have just been a dream, actual magic, or some manifestation of Boku’s subconscious. The readers are always left slightly confused, and Murakami never seems eager to provide them with any explanations. 

On some levels, I appreciate how this consistent vagueness gives everyone the freedom to interpret his stories in their own ways. However, it also often leaves me a bit unsatisfied, as I can never seem to figure out what he is trying to say. I also felt this dissatisfaction when I read the conversation he had with Mieko Kawakami. I think I understand what he means when he says he did not write his stories with any specific ideals or messages in mind (“the isms”) and believes the difference in how he writes male versus female characters are just coincidental. However, he also never directly answers any questions throughout this interview on why exactly are his characters the way they are. According to him, it seems like his characters just appeared to him that way. But why? Is it really that so much of what he writes is truly unintentional? Maybe Murakami is just vague so he never really has to engage in difficult conversations. Or maybe he is vague because he actually just writes from his raw consciousness and does not see it as his responsibility to explain its mechanisms to the readers. I don't really know, but I'm curious about what the answer is.

 

Cora 

When emotions are too hard to put into words-Sylvia

Recently in class, we talked about The Green Monster and The Ice Man. After that, I kept wondering what Murakami was trying to express through these two different “monsters.” The more I thought about it, the more I felt that maybe the monsters are metaphors for our emotions… or even a way of criticizing how modern people suppress their feelings. Why does saying “I’m jealous,” “I’m anxious,” or “I feel nothing” feel scarier than facing a monster? Maybe that’s why Murakami uses these creatures in his stories. The monsters give our emotions a form, allowing us to look at them from a safe distance and to notice how fragile our emotional lives have become.

In The Green Monster, the monster rises up from a crack in the ground. In The Ice Man, the monster is a man whose emotions are completely frozen. They seem opposite, but they remind me of two extreme ways emotions can show themselves: hot and cold. One is overwhelming and explosive, while the other is numb and frozen. When we can’t understand our emotions, they often return in these extreme forms.

The Green Monster isn’t an evil creature, but it still feels disturbing because it keeps approaching the narrator. Its desire is overwhelming. To me, the monster feels like anxiety given a body. It bursts out from below the surface, just like anxiety suddenly rising from the subconscious. The more it’s being avoided, the more it grows. The monster’s approach mirrors how anxiety works; the more you repress it, the more it demands an outlet. 

The ice man is the opposite: he has no warmth at all, as if he can’t feel. This reminds me of dissociation. When a person lives too long in fear or rejection, the brain freezes their emotions to protect them — like putting a heart in a freezer. The Ice Man’s coldness and distance make the narrator feel both drawn to him and alienated from him. This contradiction makes me think about what emotional numbness looks like, seeming calm and rational on the outside, but actually carrying a huge psychological cost.

Is Murakami Gay for Music? - Rysen

 While I can't speak much for how Murakami uses queer women in his books, the two stories we've read about queer men both discuss music. Most intriguingly (to me at least), the line from "Chance Traveller" seems to allude not to queerness, but to queerness as a representation of music and thus writing for Murakami. From page 239, "'Poulenc was gay, [...] And he made no attempt to hide it. Which was a pretty hard thing to do in those days. He said this once: 'If you took away my being homosexual my music never would have come about.' I know exactly what he means. He had to be as true to his homosexuality as he was to his music. That's music, and that's life.'" From how much Murakami has written on and about music, though not being a musician himself, it seems that this final line is representative of him -- being as true to music as to life. His quote from "The Art of Fiction No. 182" seems to echo this as well, where he states that "Writing a book is just like playing music: first I play the theme, then I improvise, then there is a conclusion, of a kind," with the important caveat that "I wanted to be a musician, but I couldn’t play the instruments very well, so I became a writer."

I feel that this also seems to culminate in his decision to have both the queer characters in "Chance Traveller" and "The Ghosts of Lexington" be piano tuners, rather than pianists themselves. Neither one of them is considered by the narrator to be just a pianist, and is thus defined by helping to fix the tools that allow others to create music instead. Yet Murakami himself seems to live in this same role, using writing as inspired by music, and thus making it something he isn't able to live without -- both in his life, and in his writing.

I also thought it was pretty intriguing too, comparing Murakami to the piano tuner in "Chance Traveller" as both seem to have been estranged following living their true selves (being gay, and being a writer respectively). The piano tuner loses contact with his sister, and Murakami from "Abandoning a Cat" describes how his relationship with his father deteriorated following his decision to become a writer. I do wonder, then, if the piano tuner having sex with a woman may be allegorical to Murakami's decision to stop running his cafe, and whether the last "god of the gays" may be more of a plea to his writing muse.

Murakami and the Mid Protagonist - Khadeja Usmani

 When reading The City and Its Uncertain Walls, I kept returning to how unimpressive Murakami’s protagonists tend to be. On page 28, the narrator describes his parents as “your average, everyday kind of parents,” noting his father’s job at a pharmaceutical company and his mother’s work as a housewife. That ordinary background mirrors the narrator himself. Like many of Murakami’s central characters, he feels intentionally plain, quiet, and reactive. He moves through the story without much initiative, letting circumstances shape him. I understand that Murakami uses this flatness to heighten the contrast between the ordinary world and the surreal elements around it, but the pattern becomes repetitive.

The same feeling came up for me when thinking about Toru Watanabe in Norwegian Wood. Toru is also defined by passivity, but it becomes especially noticeable in his romantic relationships. He drifts between Naoko and Midori without ever showing a strong sense of direction or conviction. Instead of making clear choices, he waits for events to nudge him one way or another. His relationships feel less like partnerships and more like situations he simply falls into. There is no moment where he becomes assertive, surprising, or even particularly self-aware. His emotional life feels muted, and his indecision becomes a central part of his character.

I understand that Murakami uses these unremarkable narrators as neutral observers so the strangeness, melancholy, or psychological tension of the story can stand out more clearly. Still, as a reader, I often find the sameness tiring. The atmospheres remain compelling, but the protagonists feel too plain and too interchangeable to fully hold my investment.

Magical realism: The Black and White of Zebra Crossing - Sarah

When I look up the definition of magical realism, it is often described as fiction in which magical or supernatural phenomena appear in an otherwise realistic setting. However, I am more drawn to the idea that magical realism is “a realist view of the world that incorporates magical elements.” Rather than openly announcing the presence of the supernatural, magical realism creates a constant collision between the natural and the uncanny. It feels like looking at zebra crossing: strips of reality and strips of the surreal stacked together, shifting, interchanging, and never fully settling. This instability blurs the line between illusion and actuality. Yet there is always something—a fixed point, a pole—that the protagonist uses to measure what is real.

In the fragment of Solaris, this pole is Harey, who Kelvin believes should be sleeping beside him. “Harey? Why couldn’t I hear her breathing? I felt the bedding with my hand: I was alone(1).” This moment marks the version of the world that Kelvin distrusts, the one he senses is an illusion. By the end of the fragment, however, “there was a rustling sound next to me(3).” The world Kelvin prefers—the one he considers real—is the one in which Harey lies next to him. According to the summary provided on Blackboard, the story soon turns toward the question of whether the wife beside him is actually alive, or merely an apparition of his dead wife. In this sense, Kelvin’s “reality” is not reality itself, but simply the world he is more inclined to inhabit because of Harey’s presence.

This raises the question: how should we define reality? I believe reality, in literature, is often shaped by whichever version the narrator embraces. Fiction becomes a space of idealism, a worldview filtered entirely through the protagonist. What they believe becomes the world we accept. And when their belief is challenged, the stability of that world dissolves—yet we continue to follow them.

In The City and Its Uncertain Walls, the protagonist enters the walled town after abandoning his shadow outside the gate. The wall becomes his new pole, the measure of whether he is in “reality.” At first he thinks he has entered the true world to find the “real girl,” but when he discovers that she has no memory of him, and when he notices that the townspeople speak plainly and lack intellectual curiosity, the world he trusted begins to unravel. The setting reveals its hallucinatory qualities, and he must confront the possibility that the town—or even he himself—may not be real.

The perception of reality in magical-realist fiction is like walking across a zebra crossing: say the white stripes represent reality, the black stripes illusion. But when you actually step forward, you cannot tell whether your next footfall will land in white, black, or somewhere unknown.

Women and Desire

Sleep and The Little Green Monster are one of the very few of Murakami’s works where the protagonist is a woman. Coincidentally, non-human creatures appear in front of these characters. In Sleep, there is an old man pouring water on the protagonist’s feet during her sleep paralysis, and in The Little Green Monster, a green monster digs up from underground to tell the woman he loves her. After reading both stories as well as Murakami’s other novels, it seemed to me that Murakami’s female characters are closely related to desire, especially those that are forbidden or repressed. 

In both stories, the old man and the monster are not actual creatures, but are a visualization of the protagonist’s unconscious mind. They are part of the characters that they shut off for a long time. In the case of Sleep, the old man is actually a symbol of her hatred towards her husband and her son. Despite loving them both, a part of her hates them a little, knowing she should not feel that way. In The Little Green Monster, the monster represents some sort of desire for love or maybe her sadistic nature. Whichever one it is, these creatures are hidden behind the logical, conscious mind. Their appearance only during sleepless nights or through digging upwards into the garden show that they are the result of unconscious thoughts.

Even in Norwegian Wood, Midori talks about her forbidden sexual fantasies very often, and Reiko represses her sexual attraction towards her student. All that led me to think: in Murakami’s world, women and desire seem to be closely connected. 

Yewon Yun