Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami
When it comes to fiction, I don’t follow the usual rating and notes structure I have with non-fiction. It’s not that they aren’t valuable. It’s that I find I have less than 1/10th the marginalia notes. I also find fiction brings out more emotion that is better articulated in a single bout of writing (as done here).
In selecting Norwegian Wood, it was advertised to me as a “coming of age” novel. Did you know the “coming of age” genre tends to be written in the first person with the main character typically being in the age of 14-20? I didn’t even know it was a genre. I tell you this because the novel is a first person account of a young man living in Tokyo from age 17 to 21.
I should have prefaced this earlier but I will not be sharing any facts about the novel itself here. It’s an odd review about my relationship with a book rather than its contents.
Having read Murakami’s autobiography a couple times prior to reading this novel, something that struck out was how much of the author seemed to exist in piecemeal throughout his characters. It’s as if Murakami decided to bestow parts of his personality into his individually flawed characters. One character inherited his love for music (he ran a jazz bar before becoming a novelist), while another inherited his love for the Great Gatsby, while another inherited his love for running.
This was the first novel where I felt the fictional story seemed to contain more truths than some nonfictions. While nonfiction may need to stick with surface generalities or take a narrow plunge into a topic within a topic, there is a level of superficial correctness that fails to bridge a connection between the author and reader. Whereas, fiction can tunnel into the realms of humanity that can touch the reader’s core. Obviously, there are exceptions for both.
I’m not chastising nonfiction authors. They merely lack the license novelists have. A license to be an expert in their own set of experiences. Nonfiction authors, unfortunately, have to prove some kind of expertise on a subject. An oddity given most books are a mere collection of items during a point in time in the nonfiction author’s own development as a human being.
What I found so lovely about the novel was how Murakami dug into the complexity of humanity. The complexity that every individual goes through in life. Not just in their own mind but through interactions with the moving pieces of family and society at large. The complexity of emotions that encompass basic topics like death, love, sex, and loneliness.
How does one process death? How does one deal with guilt? How is the definition of love different for every person? How can it also differ between different partners? What does it mean to not be happy someone died but also be devoid of sorrow? All are questions without a right or wrong and that’s what I felt from reading the book.
It’s a refreshing look into how imperfect people are in an imperfect world. In many ways, the antidote to the chaos that surrounds the complexity of life is to be honest. Honest with the self and honest to the people around us. The characters reveal how rare and hard this simple choice is. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard. Because it’s a choice.
On another note, I wonder if the book could be an indirect manual on how to love oneself. I think even narcissists struggle to truly love themselves and it’s a struggle every human seems to have once obtaining consciousness. I’m not saying the book teaches you how to love yourself. Just that, it’s something to strive for, many fail along the way, some don’t even realize it’s something they need to do, and it’s really hard.
After finishing the book, I came to admire Murakami’s courage in exploring the topics he did and gratitude for portraying it the way he did. Maybe others will feel the same too.
A quote from the book I liked:
“If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone is thinking. That’s the world of hicks and slobs. Real people would be ashamed of themselves doing that.”