I once counted the days 'til the new Murakami translation hit the racks (or the computer screens). Now, it's like receiving a telegram -- dread accompanies the opening. Kafka on the Shore is not particularly awful -- unless you keep in mind as you read it Murakami's past greatness (Wind Up Bird Chronicle). Very past, for he has morphed into the worst sort of Designer Fictionist, with a dollop of cranky right-wing politics dropped in. (The scene with the feminists invading the sovereign state of Komura Library is easily the worst scene Murakami has written. And why did the lost love of the book's heroine have to be beaten to death by a bunch of leftist Japanese students? Why not by the police, the school administration, or the Yakuza? Beating up on feminists and 1960s radicals: hey, now there's a brilliantly brave thing to do in the early 21st-century.) Murakami spends more time (MUCH more) describing the Nike shoes, and Lauren cardigans, and Opus One wines, and Piaget pens, and borsalino jackets, and Armani belts, and . . . well, you get the picture. What you don't get is the slightest freshness of character, wit, or idea. You have a know-it-all 15-year-old kid, a retarded yet infinitely wise old man, a dreamy 50-something Japanese woman, and other not very interesting types. Throughout the whole book, Murakami skims. Politics, classical music, surfing, Kafka (the writer), classic cars, architecture, the history of the Pacific War -- Murakami touches on all of it and brings nothing to life, or to mind - except the definite adoration he has for his own thought process. (And his sex scenes are written as if by someone who's never actually done it.) By page 300 of this 400-plus page book, you'll stop caring, and you'll lose all patience with the New Age ramblings of the various characters. A once great writer has become a poseur. A genuine tragedy.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Decline and Fall
I once counted the days 'til the new Murakami translation hit the racks (or the computer screens). Now, it's like receiving a telegram -- dread accompanies the opening. Kafka on the Shore is not particularly awful -- unless you keep in mind as you read it Murakami's past greatness (Wind Up Bird Chronicle). Very past, for he has morphed into the worst sort of Designer Fictionist, with a dollop of cranky right-wing politics dropped in. (The scene with the feminists invading the sovereign state of Komura Library is easily the worst scene Murakami has written. And why did the lost love of the book's heroine have to be beaten to death by a bunch of leftist Japanese students? Why not by the police, the school administration, or the Yakuza? Beating up on feminists and 1960s radicals: hey, now there's a brilliantly brave thing to do in the early 21st-century.) Murakami spends more time (MUCH more) describing the Nike shoes, and Lauren cardigans, and Opus One wines, and Piaget pens, and borsalino jackets, and Armani belts, and . . . well, you get the picture. What you don't get is the slightest freshness of character, wit, or idea. You have a know-it-all 15-year-old kid, a retarded yet infinitely wise old man, a dreamy 50-something Japanese woman, and other not very interesting types. Throughout the whole book, Murakami skims. Politics, classical music, surfing, Kafka (the writer), classic cars, architecture, the history of the Pacific War -- Murakami touches on all of it and brings nothing to life, or to mind - except the definite adoration he has for his own thought process. (And his sex scenes are written as if by someone who's never actually done it.) By page 300 of this 400-plus page book, you'll stop caring, and you'll lose all patience with the New Age ramblings of the various characters. A once great writer has become a poseur. A genuine tragedy.
