This year I read Murakami’s ‘Norwegian Wood’, regarded by many as a landmark of Japanese literature. It is also the first novel I properly finished in a long while. Reading Norwegian Wood during the isolated pandemic experience really strengthened the solemn atmosphere that this story carries.
We are introduced to our main character, Toru Watanabe, who takes us back to his adolescent years. To 1960s Japan, where he is a student at Tokyo University, and we are enlightened by his fascinatingly dull life. Watanabe’s predicament is that he is helplessly infatuated with one Miss Naoko. However, for various reasons, Naoko is unattainable. Yet, Watanabe remains shackled to the idea of her throughout the book. It is unclear whether he loves her because he loves her, or because he is unable to love anyone else.
On our journey through his memories, we are introduced to a handful of characters, all of whom are entranced in their own loneliness. Without revealing too much, Norwegian Wood is a story about ordinary people leading ordinary lives. Watanabe’s thoughts are presented in its entire rawness, in many ways it feels like taking a peek in a stranger’s diary. Despite being a young and healthy man, he is utterly void of aspirations. Watanabe does not dream of joining the student protests that take place at the backdrop of 1960's Japan, neither does he care all too much about his school results, or carving his own way in the world. What is this about then? When does the novel take a turn and transform our main character?
It doesn’t. What our dearest Watanabe lacks in ambition however, he makes up for in sex. Murakami does not shy away from describing these sexual encounters and conversations, of which there are many. It is almost as if sex is Watanabe’s way to connect with other people. He appears so emotionally backed up that his only method of forging genuine connection with someone is by sleeping with them. It is hard to sympathize with someone who is in the novel described to be “about as sensitive as a steel plate”. Norwegian Wood is completely anti-idealistic. In a sense, Murakami hopes that we can find ourselves in Watanabe. Not because he is interesting, but precisely because he isn’t. Most of us aren’t, really.
The prose is by far my favorite aspect of this novel, although it’s a touch melodramatic. Murakami has a way with metaphors. I do appreciate his words, and I appreciate the translator (Jay Rubin) for putting them down so well.
“I have a lot more patience for others than I have for myself, and I’m much better at bringing out the best in others than in myself. That’s just the kind of person I am. I’m the scratchy stuff on the side of the matchbox.”
While being depressing for the most part, there are a few segments that contain the sort of deadpan humor that might get a chuckle out of you.
“I’m not going to die with you just because you made lunch for me. Of course, if it had been dinner...”
Death is quite a significant motive in the novel (“Death exists, not as the opposite but as a part of life”), so is mental illness and, again, sex. With this, Murakami has addressed the trifecta of taboo topics in Japanese culture.
Myself, I don’t quite know how to feel. This novel made me realize that people are rather often stuck in the past (“Here I was in my early twenties and the best part of my life was over.”), with no desire to cross over to the present. It is hard not to feel depressed after this if you are already inclined to feel that way. Despite its subject matter, I don’t think it’s all that somber. At the end of the novel, there’s no promise that life gets better. But that doesn’t mean it has to get worse.
“My life hadn’t ended. Life was still full of wonderful things I hadn’t experienced.”
