#7 NORWEGIAN WOOD (7/10)
by Haruki Murakami (村上 春樹)
Murakami’s just one of those guyyyyyyyys isn’t he? Is he all that? Isn’t he? I feel like Murakami “can’t really write” the same way Billie Holiday “can’t really sing”—they just do what they do and it’s natural and it sounds good. I remember hearing about Murakami for the first time when Mallika and mr. jw were talking about him one morning after the morning register and feeling like I was definitely missing out on something and yet, it wasn’t until I heard that this was _your_ favourite novel that I decided to read it. My priorities are highly imaginative sometimes.
I musn’t say things like, by page 2, I wanted to cry. It would look either like I was showing off (emotionally available) or accidentally revealing myself to be deeply sad, or close to the edge (sluttily sad, leaking out everywhere)—which yes, if you want to know, I’m probably both at the best/worst of times.
But it’s special already—by the 2nd page—the kind of special or perfect where I don’t want to bring my inky pen anywhere near [how can it reach such a pitch so early in?]—but sorry, just to… to go from the dreary normality/expediency/convenience/technology/complexity of airplane landing in rainy Germany to the [perfect simplicity of the] meadow…
And the way he includes the sensorial bridge too. What took him from one thing (the present) to the other (the past). It’s perfect, —except it isn’t perfect, page 3, he lapses into cliché. Talking about memory he says, “I feel as if I can reach out and trace them with a fingertip”… I mean, maybe I’m just not old enough to understand what he means?
I do know what Miss Blue Sofa meant tho. This has to be his most dated novel?—not the place to start. But I think it’s so exciting that I can comment on boy’s bodies & redress the balance one day.
I know I’m late to the Murakami train.
It’s like, the opposite of a demanding read. Truthfully, it reminds me of the earl grey tea I have here. It’s disappointing when I’ve let it cool down but if I leave it for even longer & there’s no trace of warmth that’s when it’s best. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m disappointed this is one of your favourite books. But at the same time, I think it’s really sweet.
This might sound strange to you but one of my own sexist beliefs is that boys can’t—(don’t?)—enjoy reading. At least not as much as girls do, which I think is funny and I didn’t realise until now. Where does this come from do you think? (18th century definitely.) But, [talking to you again now Mura,] we’re certainly an item. I’m more than happy to do long stints w/ you into the night. I’m up in my bed reading & it feels like a culturally valid thing to do: twenty-smth. Year old, up late, reading Murakami in bed…
Murakami makes writing seem so easy—so effortless—he’s like the opposite of Henry Miller—Henry Miller is so laboured, & yk, it shows—Murakami less than dances across the page, it all comes across like breathing—to the extent that sometimes he lapses into cliché! No, you wouldn’t bring this book to a desert island but it makes for a nice sweet dessert at the end of the day—it’s light,—& heavy,—& fulfilling. I mean, I’ve said it’s light & heavy, but it’s not dense. It’s feel-o-pastry over chocolate & olive oil mousse. (I wish I could go to bed. I wish I’d mature up & find a new, more inventive, equally non-destructive way to fuck myself over than drinking 4 coffees in the day—with the last after dinner even! I pretended I didn’t know what I was doing—tbh I don’t think I did. I forgot this feeling. So tired but relentlessly awake. I don’t wish I’d stop picking my face, it’s a way to hold my own hand …x)
Some good descriptions of the sky (p. 179)
Nice tossing off in the field (p. 188)
p. 189 – another suicide.
OMFGDOOMBARSEXWITHAGIRL—you just sold it to me. Fuck. Pages 201 to 205. That came out of nowhere. Of course—you took my favourite trope (one of,) of the piano teacher & the student & you completely flipped it on its head. FUCK. So I was right to be jealous when they mentioned it at school? It practically was a private joke. Anyway—fuck you—now I’m involved.
You don’t really grunt & roll over in bed—not w/ a book—you relieve yourself if the storm cloud is too heavy & then you come back, pick up where you left off—sure in a bit of a haze—what just happened? I need to go back. Sometimes it’s a little unbelievable—the transitions I mean,
Naoko and I played a game once. We made believe we were lesbians. Want to hear about it?
He’s like an expert at fruit salad—simple stripped back things—good combinations—just as they are, like,
Then the three of us ate grapes to the sound of the rain.
Murakami is like eggs. Simple, good, approachable. Both sterile & full of sex. Sterile bcoz very matter of fact. “The centre does not hold.” The sun bursts & spills… & you get soggy bed. Rain. School. New friends. Meals. Walking. Guitar song. Letter. (What we call windbreakers, they call windcheaters, which is sweet.)
By chapter 7, I’m definitely inundated.
I want to shove my face in the centre crease. I will now do it. W/ attempted somnolescence (what does that mean?) It’s acc. not bad—almost a perfect shape for a face. I run my nose from top to bottom and back again with a good sniff. I’m going back for seconds. It’s soft. Softer than you’d imagine. & it smells like an empty hall. It smells like—I keep my eyes on the words as long as I can as I rise the book to meet my face & I collapse into it & take a dig deep breath—what does Murakami smell like? Is what I ask. Paper moon. Somnolent rain? Maybe this page just isn’t very strong—I’ll try again further along.
What an interesting book.
It has put me in mood for my favourite game: what would I do right now if I could do anything? It’s a good question. It’s basically always a good question. Altho my current jam is good currents combined. To improve? It’d be warm outside—I could smoke out the window—there’s a non-descript quiet human I like in the flat with me—hopefully we’re both smoking out of character cigarettes & sitting at opposite ends of the sofa & holding hands feet to feet—no more just fiddling. Hannah’s house. Waiting for Hannah at the bottom of her street. I feel like cereal—a really good bowl of cereal. I don’t feel like sleep. Who knew I’d develop insomnia in Sweden? Seems like a good dream. I’d like to try reading in bars but I worry it’ll be too expensive. & I have no inbetween shoes. Those brown boots! I’ll sniff them out tomorrow. What am I hungry for? Touch doesn’t even appeal to me that much right now. The two people that keep floating around my brain are Hannah & Mr. James Williams… it’s almost embarrassing. But I put it here in case I die randomly & it’d be a nice kind of goodbye (w/ Hannah mostly—sorry to specify.) Sleeping is so boring when you’re alone. Maybe I’ll read my diary—oh no! What if I am my own best reader? Probably am… damn.
I think more than most, reading NORWEGIAN WOOD feels like watching TV.
Murakami, you do help me dare to be simple (in my writing)
And sincere!
I think it was helpful showing me Taru’s routine—it almost made me able to glamourise doing my laundry today (Sunday) because of your cult-like status. I can do my laundry today & think ah, just like in a Murakami novel!
Is Murakami a good read if you’re depressed? Yes.
My type: as earnest as narrator of this book (p. 327)
I really do feel his loneliness his boyish apathy, his careless mistakes…
p.341 = this is what I love. How people actually spend their time:
I went to the university every day, worked in the restaurant two or three times a week, talked with Itoh about books and music, read a few Boris Vian novels he lent me, wrote letters, played with Seagull, made spaghetti, worked in the garden, masturbated thinking of Naoko and saw lots of films.
p.342—can you believe there’s such thing as the “smell of rain”—I can’t. I know the smell of pavement after rain—in summer—the smell of hot wet pavement —the rain evaporates with the smell—but the smell of rain itself, no it’s coming back to me now. Guess I’ve been in a snowy place too long, that’s sweet. Snow has no smell.
So, I’ve finished now.
I certainly feel like we’ve come together because suddenly my chest lies hurting and I feel so much closer to him. I feel like I own this book for the first time.
It’s a form of meditation. It makes you aware of your chest for fear, your lungs, for grief. I like the casual sex without judgement. It makes me feel like sex is just sex. And it needn’t mean too much beyond the confines of whatever it was. It’s a very good structure, having that first scene as it was (practically perfect)—I kept waiting to return there but we never did…
Next.