The Restaurant POV in Murakami's Writing

Having read Norwegian Wood during my time working in the food industry, one scene really stood out to me—when Midori is cooking for Toru. In Norwegian Wood, the scene is described in such detail that it focuses, or rather obsesses, over some of the most mundane or “uninteresting” things. The reason this stood out to me is because of the kind of crowd drawn into restaurant culture. Chefs are extremely odd people (if you’ve never worked in a restaurant, just trust me). The way Murakami lingers on small actions and tiny details felt familiar, almost like being back in a kitchen watching someone take plating way too seriously. For example, some chefs would watch a cook plate and before sending it to the pass, take the same plate and spend minutes moving around random greens or sauces until it became "perfect". 

The way Murakami writes about spaghetti in The Year of Spaghetti stood out to me in the same way. The story centers around something so simple (boiling pasta) yet it becomes this intense, almost ritualistic act. While part of that is just Murakami’s prose style, I think part of it also comes from the culture he was a part of. Japan has an abundance of smaller Izakaya-style bars and cafés, spaces that revolve around routine, repetition, and attention to detail. 

Restaurant culture can be neurotic, obsessive, and strangely intimate. In a lot of Murakami’s writing, especially in these two works, that same energy is there. The focus on process, on small repeated actions, on quiet moments inside kitchens or apartments. It was only after I learned of Murakami's jazz bar, Peter Cat, and reading The Year of Spaghetti, that it felt less like coincidence and more like influence.

Raul 

Reconstructing Shadows of War in "Tony Takitani" & "Abandoning a Cat"

On December 7, 1941, an infamous strike was launched by the Japanese military on the Pearl Harbor naval base in Hawaii, causing the United States to cease its neutrality and enter World War II. Both Murakami's father and the fictional father of Tony Takitani, Shozaburo Takitani, are safely sequestered when this occurs—one was released charitably from military service just before, and the other had never shed any sweat over the war to begin with. These two fathers and their two sons have the war, its atrocities, and the subsequent American occupation of Japan stitched into them, and when reading "Tony Takitani" and "Abandoning a Cat" it seems almost inevitable that the traumas of war are carried in the body and then passed on, though diluted, to those who come after.

In the case of Tony Takitani, with "his curly hair," "his somewhat deeply sculpted face," and the Italian-American origins of his namesake, it could very well be that America is reflected onto him in place of his mother, whose absence the story depends upon. He is named casually by the American major his father plays jazz with, who assigns himself as Tony's godfather. I think this naming of Shozaburo's son by an American military leader could be representative of the effect that militaristic occupation has on a native culture since the matter is unceremoniously handled by the major and Shozaburo, numb from his wife's sudden death, can do nothing but acquiesce: "The American occupation of Japan was probably going to last a while yet, and an American-style name might come in handy for the kid at some point." This thought on Shozaburo's part is especially interesting when you consider that if he and Tony's mother wedded in 1947, Tony is born just a few short years after the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The next paragraph immediately refutes the slightly disruptive thought that an American name would be (someday) beneficial: "For certain people, coming face-to-face with a child called 'Tony Takitani' was all it took to reopen old wounds." This lends nicely to the beginning of "Abandoning a Cat."

From the first few paragraphs of this nonfiction piece about his father and these cats, American violence sits immovably in the corner of the reader's eye with the mention of ruins of a building "bombed by American planes—one of a few still visible scars of the war." (Again for me, the dropping of atomic bombs in Japan were brought to mind.) Murakami's father was discharged from service only days before Pearl Harbor, and, despite having survived narrowly, felt a sense of guilt over those he had left behind: "having his own life saved while his former comrades lost theirs became a source of great pain and anguish. I understand all the more now why he closed his eyes and devoutly recited the sutras every morning of his life." This event of American entrance into WWII becomes central to his father's life as a moment in which his life split decisively into two paths, one leading to life and one to a nearly certain death, and it is this moment that makes a part of Murakami's father permanently inaccessible to Murakami himself. It is impossibly to extract the effects of war from those who are affected by it, and I understand why Murakami ends "Abandoning a Cat" the way he does: "Still, that solitary raindrop has its own emotions, its own history, its own duty to carry on that history. Even if it loses its individual integrity and is absorbed into a collective something. Or maybe precisely because it's absorbed into a larger, collective entity."

The description of the relationship between Tony and his father are also very similar to the dynamic painted between Murakami and his father. Of Tony and Shozaburo, Murakami writes that "being the kind of people they were, imbued to an equal agree of habitual solitude, neither took the initiative to open his heart to the other." Of him and his own father, he writes, "Both of us were unbending, and when it came to not expressing our thoughts directly, we were two of a kind. For better of for worse." For Murakami, he describes also how his life was free from the worries of war that took up his father's youth, that he could study unmoored and enjoy what his father couldn't. But this expectation from his father carries this latent burden of war from father to son. This sublimation (or absorption to follow Murakami's metaphor) of pain into other emotionally intensive narratives is present in "Tony Takitani" as well. In both stories, it is the disconnect between father and son that paint the seemingly unrelated stories of a wife with a shopping addiction and a cat escaping up a tree with similar thematic undertakings: they convey a tragic inaccessibility to those you love as a result of trauma. The scars of war show up, though transformed and translated. Murakami communicates a dreadful sense that even after surviving war or violence or death, the loved one coming back unscathed returns as only fraction of the person who left: "Going down is much harder than going up." 

(There is so much much more to say here about the connection here to American culture, the ending of "Abandoning a Cat" with the mention of "individual integrity" in relation to the solitary raindrops history, and collective history! But I am very interested to see this effect in Norwegian Wood as well because I do see some of it there also!)

Alana Lopez

Murakami and His Women

I have often contemplated the way in which Murakami writes about his women. There are often some interesting descriptions of women that are typically  related to sexuality, that can be off-putting and sometimes strange. However, I never detected any misogyny in his work. I think there are some gratuitous passages for but truly nothing overtly degrading. This may be a very divisive take, but I feel like in some ways, Murakami writes women with more agency, grace, and respect than most other writers. He affords his female characters the privilege that most male characters are afforded. His male characters, usually, are quite bland before the introduction of a female counterpart, counterparts who are used for the transformation of the male leads; I look to to the arguments conveyed by Meiko Kawakami (a brilliant author I might add!) in her interview with Murakami: “A Feminist Critique of Murakami Novels, With Murakami himself”. 

For me though, what I find refreshing about lots of Murakami women, is the agency, specifically sexual agency they are granted. In the short story: “Drive My Car”, the wife of the protagonist has  an extra-marital relationship, and never does the text admonish or criticize her. She is never the subject of shame by her husband, her lover, or the text as a whole. It hurts the protagonist, and yet, she is not the subject of vitriol. It feels perfectly natural that his wife could have taken a lover – it is upsetting but not villainized. In A Wild Sheep Chase, Boku’s girlfriend is a sex worker, and yet, he nor the plot ever comments or criticizes this work, which felt extremely new. Boku engages in a real relationship with her, accepts her work, and even suggests she show her ears to enjoy herself more (a suggestion that she does not like).

Stories from Men Without Women also come to mind, primarily “Kino” and “Scheherazade”. So many instances of flawed women that are never admonished for their sexualities and choices. They simply exist as ambiguous characters that feel both real and vivid. “Tony Takitani”, is another story that feels as though women can exist unchained from societal expectations, where Tony’s wife is not criticized for her excessive shopping, but rather, encouraged to return the clothes out of genuine concern for her wellbeing. “A Perfect Day for Kangaroos” offers a similar, sympathetic portrayal of women, where his girlfriend is not ridiculed for her somewhat surprising and seemingly incomprehensible attitude towards the growing baby kangaroo. We as the audience are expected to understand there is more to her than we are able to deduce, and so in the short duration of the story, once again, female characters are afforded grace despite not knowing why. 

There are other novels that come to mind when I think of great female characters, Aomame of IQ84 being one of my favorites. It is interesting to analyze female characters specifically, and recently, the short stories we have been reading really made me think about women and their roles in Murakami stories. In the past I definitely had the strong inclination to deem Murakami’s work as a misunderstanding of women. More recently, however, I feel like my perspective has shifted a bit, even while reading the somewhat strange descriptions and scenes in Norwegian Wood regarding Naoko. Most of the time, I feel as though these descriptions don’t feel useless or baseless. While I find them to be uncomfortable, I  feel they are quite compelling. Midori, in all of her odd requests and quirks, I cannot help but love. I love the odd and eccentric women he writes about. I find them to be bold and intrusive in the best ways. I would love to hear everyone’s thoughts on this as I know it can be a very complex topic. Thanks.

- Isabella

Diving Into Murakami's Projection Into Toru and The Theme of Confronting Death

 Norwegian Wood is a bit of a different read from other Murakami novels in the sense that it is a slice of life love story. There are no magical dark forces or surreal events happening, and I think this can be credited for the success of the novel. Many young readers will read Norwegian Wood and feel understood.

Now, I think it is undeniable that Murakami projects himself into the personality of Toru. The story sometimes take place in locations where Murakami lived in Tokyo, and the way Murakami and Toru talk is even similar (just from looking at Murakami interviews). I am also interested in the drastic difference between Naoko and Midori. Naoko seems sentimental and emotional, while Midori is the opposite; she is vibrant and bubbly. If Naoko is someone who lives in the past, understandably so following Kizuki’s sudden death, then Midori is the symbol of living in the present. I think it is really interesting how Murakami incorporated Midori into the story as a total contrast to the heroine.

A theme of this novel that I think is underexplored is confronting death. Toru and Naoko both witnessed someone close to them die, and it changed them and shaped the narrative. Toru said, "The night Kizuki died, however, I lost the ability to see death (and life) in such simple terms. Death was not the opposite of life. It was already here, within my being; it had always been here, and no struggle would permit me to forget that. When it took the 17-year-old Kizuki that night in May, death took me as well." This isn’t something someone as young as Toru would usually say. Fundamentally, after realizing the closeness of death, he is changed along with Naoko. I wonder if something similar had happened to HM when he was young.

-Allen

Murakami + Parallel Worlds - Sloane

 Hi everyone,

As I've been getting through Norwegian Wood, certain aspects of the story have made me contemplate a lot about how Murakami tends to incorporate aspects of parallel worlds into his writing. Or maybe parallel existences is a better term?

I first got started thinking about this when I read about how Naoko and Toru spontaneously meet at the train station and go on their walk around Tokyo. Toru emphasizes that Naoko walks ahead and he trails behind in her wake. After they stop into the noodle shop, we really begin to feel a disconnect between the two of them. On page 21, the back-and-forth goes something like this:

N: "Does this make any sense to you?"

T: "Everybody feels like that to some extent. They're trying to express themselves and it bothers them when they can't get it right."

Naoko looked disappointed with my answer.

N: No, that's not it either.

Toru and Naoko are inhabiting the same space after having spent the whole afternoon together, but even after talking it seems they are not much closer than before. This is why I call their existences parallel: they are side by side without truly interacting on a level at which they can understand one another. Even when they sleep together (and are as physically "close" as you can possibly get), immediately afterward, Toru asks her why she never slept with Kizuki. This is the completely wrong thing to say, and Naoko begins to cry. Even after all the time they spent together, Toru doesn't understand Naoko's fears and thoughts. After this, we see Naoko go off to Ami Hostel, a physical manifestation of the diverging paths inside of them.

We've seen this pattern outside Norwegian Wood as well. In "Tony Takitani," Tony and his father consider themselves too different from one another to spend much time together, though their paths do still cross from time to time in Tony's childhood and after Tony's marriage. "Drive My Car's" Kafuku enjoys a happy marriage with his wife but realizes there are aspects of her life she won't share with him (her affairs). Even Murakami's own memoir about his father shares this theme -- Murakami details how he had many memories of his father, but they were mostly neutral. Over time they drifted apart as Murakami didn't prioritize studying as much as his father wanted him to, but in the end they came to an understanding of sorts, even if it was awkward. I wonder if the feeling associated with that memory of disconnect is what inspires this repeating theme in his work, if at least on a subconscious level.

To end on, I'm wondering if the well Naoko mentions at the beginning of the story could have something to do with this. She specifically warns against falling down the well, leading Toru to imagine his plight if he did -- slowly starving to death in the dark as he looked up at the brightness of the well opening, knowing nobody would come to rescue him. In this way, could getting trapped in the well be seen as something of a parallel existence itself? At the bottom, you can see a glimpse of the world above you, but can only access it if someone comes to help you back up into it. Yet nobody wants to stray off the beaten path for fear of falling in themselves. Maybe the well is a metaphor for the world of our private inner turmoil, which others oftentimes don't want to pry into too much for fear of getting in too deep (AKA falling into the well).

Toru and Naoko’s Loss: Who am “I” without you?

 In Precarious Life, Judith Butler argues that when we lose someone, we lose more than that person—in addition to losing the other, we lose the part of ourself reflected in the other, and the relational bond between oneself and the other. The bond that is lost is a bond constitutive of oneself, so when you lose another, you lose part of yourself, too. When Toru and Naoko’s relationships with Kizuki each end, Toru and Naoko both lose the part of themselves that existed only in relation to Kizuki—no longer are they the same people. Reflecting on the past, Toru describes this sentiment: “The night Kizuki died, however, I lost the ability to see death (and life) in such simple terms. Death was not the opposite of life. It was already here, within my being…” (25). Part of Kizuki is dead, but he must go on living. He does not know who he is, without Kizuki; he does not know if there is an “I” that exists within him without the other who made him who he was. Explaining her relationship with Kizuki to Toru, Naoko says, “Our boy-girl relationship was really unusual, too. It was as if we were physically joined somewhere” (127). Naoko and Kizuki seem like they were even more tightly bound together than Toru and Kizuki; they were inseparable, unintelligible to themselves without the other. But something remains for both Toru and Naoko—the image of the Kizuki which still exists in their minds. Kizuki was always the link that connected Naoko and Toru together—and years after his death, their relationship still seems to rest on that foundational link. I think that Naoko and Toru are so drawn to each other because being with each other enables them to keep getting to know Kizuki. Naoko gets to learn the part of Kizuki which existed only in relation to Toru, and Toru gets to know the Kizuki that existed only in relation to Naoko. Those parts of Naoko and Toru reflected in Kizuki remain dead, but through their relationship with one another, Naoko and Toru can build a new image of Kizuki which reveals parts of his past self that they hadn’t known. They can regain a relationship, though different, with Kizuki by developing their relationship with each other. I think that’s the reason why they say they can only possibly get better together—because together is the only way they can get a part of Kizuki back. 

Juliet 

Murakami’s Literary Universe

Upon reading several of Murakami's works, we can see his tendency to incorporate in each work a regular set of elements: mirrors, loneliness, investigation, numbers, surrealism, interest in western media, cigarette brands, and so much more. Some of them are simply mentioned in passing. Based on some interviews, it wouldn’t be a bad guess that Murakami has said that these don’t specifically symbolize anything, even if they probably do. Often when I read his books or stories, the text to me feels like Murakami's writing. Maybe it is his unique style as well, but the cameos of various objects or personalities always seem to appear, as if the stories all take place in the same universe. This sort of “universal symbolism” is just like the blending of the American culture into the Japanese language, which without the mentions of Japanese cities, wouldn't immediately imply the story took place in Japan. There is a constant element in Murakami's writing that despite its various forms, is ever present. His book The Strange Library is what I think is a play on his writing with these characters as his cast. It combines the surrealism all together into a story that gives me excitement every time something familiar appears.

-River