While searching for his missing wife, Japanese lawyer Toru Okada has strange experiences and meets strange characters. A woman wants phone sex, a man describes wartime torture, he finds himself at the bottom of a well. Part detective story, part philosophical meditation.
Fate looms over this book as a vast, unseen, but ever-present character, neither good nor evil, but simply there; implacable and all-powerful. Fate and destiny are part of what this book is about, but there's far more to it than that. I'm quite sure I've hardly begun to grasp the depth and breadth of ideas and interconnections Murakami has put into this incredible novel.
It's also a book about brutality, war, and different kinds of pain. If I had read that before picking up the book, it may have made me decide not to read it, but believe me, that would have been a big mistake. Yes, there are horrible scenes in this book, and one in particular that I took a while to recover from. But somehow,these scenes seem important, and anything but gratuitous. These things are wrapped up with genuine history - a mixture of things that really did happen, and things that could have happened - which latter are just as important, and after reading Murakami, one somehow feels they are just as real. It's frightening, like an insight into the actual reality of humankind and the evil things people, real people, are capable of doing - even today, now, in this real world.
It's also a book that seems to question reality, until the reader starts to feel that reality is malleable, intangible, and maybe even not all that important. And it's about the nature of life and death, and about how the line between the two might be more blurred than they seem.
Now I'm not saying any of these things the book explores are true, or real, or anything in particular, but reading this book makes things look different, and makes the world itself feel like a different place, at least while reading it. This book is nothing if not an interesting experience.
I would like to add that it is also about characters - people who are vulnerable, human, likeable and complex. And with all the themes and ideas that make this book so amazing, there's no lack of story in it. It's a detective story, a love story, a war story, and a metaphysical journey.
If I wrote a million words on this book, it would still leave too many things unsaid, and I have too many gaps in my own understanding to do it justice. In brief, I recommend it!
What is it about these diffident, slightly hapless, determinedly directionless narrators? Someone like Strethers from James' The Ambassadors, or Fitzgerald's Nick Carraway (The Great Gatsby) really sucks me in. Toru Okada, a thirty-year old unemployed legal assistant, is the opposite of the stereotypical salaryman; his only dilemma is how to fill in the hours stretching endlessly before him each day: should he cook spaghetti bolognaise? read a book? go shopping? Instead, it's his wife, Kumiko, who is the breadwinner, and the obligatory pants-wearer, ringing him up to delegate tasks to him which only rival each other in mundanity: pick up the laundry, buy the toilet paper, find the cat.
Then the mystery begins - and once it begins, it multiplies and folds in upon itself. An anonymous woman rings the house, who insists not only that Toru knows her well - "Ten minutes, please. That's all we need to understand each other" - but that Toru know her very well: "Try picturing me. From my voice. Imagine what I'm like. Where I am. How I'm dressed."
Toru has scarcely any time to work this one out before Kumiko sends him in pursuit of their missing cat, Notoru Wataya, a feline saddled with the appallingly weighty name of Kumiko's brother-in-law, a Machiavellian politician rising through the ranks. To find the cat, Toru leaps into the blocked-off alley behind their house, where he meets the mercurial May Kasahara, an enigmatic sixteen-year old with a pronounced limp and a two-inch scar on her cheek. May cheerfully assumes command over the somewhat apathetic Toru, dubbing him "Mr Wind-up Bird", after the particular bird-call he hears echo in the neighbourhood, a call which sounds like the springs of the world are being wound up: "Every day it would come to the stand of trees in our neighbourhood and wind the spring of our quiet little world."
Springs in a mechanical sense - for much of the novel concerns the idea of life and fate; life as a great machine, which some hidden higher power is preparing - but for what? But springs also work in the geographical sense, for the flow of water is integral to the plot of the book, drawing together the dry well Toru finds in an abandoned house backing on to the blocked-off alleyway; the warnings of their mystical family friend, Mr Honda; the religious austerities of clairvoyant Malta Kano whom Kumiko employs to find their cat. And then Kumiko herself goes missing.
Toru's search for Kumiko will take him deep into the historical depths of Manchukuo, the ill-fated Japanese settlement at the heart of Mainland China; into a dreamlike world where the women in his life endlessly segue into another; into utter darkness at the bottom of a dried-up well; and ultimately, most irrevocably, into the mysterious, pitch-black Room 208. Through all of this reverberates the call of the wind-up bird.
Murakami traverses a dazzling array of landscapes in his sprawling novel. His world is rich and resonant with the stories of many characters - and I haven't even managed to yet find a place for Cinnamon and Nutmeg Asakasa, whose spiritual powers will be of huge influence on Toru. Here the reader will find, labyrinthine and Pynchon-like, a troubling range of echoes and references gathering momentum into an increasingly claustrophobic world. In the end, the mysteries can only be solved by coming to grips with the obscure figure of Noboru Wataya (the man, not the cat) and the ineluctable pull towards Room 208 where Toru keeps returning in trance: here he will confront an unknown assailant in a confrontation that will enmesh them all.
Transformation is at the heart of what I admire most about Murakami - from the quiet, almost innocuous way he is able to take his protagonist from cooking spaghetti and ironing shirts to the brutalities of the Sino-Russian border in WWII and the metaphysical depths of the dried-up well. He is entirely equal both to the expression of the mundane to the expression of the ineffable. Here is Toru trying to rationalise his antagonism towards his brother-in-law Noboru Wataya:
It was like a persistent low-grade fever. I never had a television in the house, but by some uncanny coincidence, whenever I glanced at a TV somewhere, he would be on it, making some pronouncement. If I flipped through the pages of a magazine in a doctor's waiting room, there would be a picture of Noboru Wataya, with an article he had written. I felt as if Noboru Wataya were lying in wait for me just around every corner in the known world.
OK, let's face it. I hated the guy.
Now here's Toru, sitting in self-imposed exile at the bottom of the well:
It felt extremely strange not to be able to see my own body with my own eyes, though I knew it must be there. Staying very still in the darkness, I became less and less convinced of the fact that I actually existed. To cope with that, I woould clear my throat now and then, or run my hand over my face. That way, my ears could check on the existnece of my voice, my hand could check on the existence of my face, and my face could check on the existence of my hand.
Despite these efforts, my body began to lose its density and weight, the sand gradually being washed away by flowing water. I felt as if a fierce and wordless tug-of-war were going on inside me, a contest in which my mind was slowly dragging my body into its own territory. The darkness was disrupting the proper balance between the two. The thought struck me that my own body was a mere provisional husk that had been prepared for my mind by a rearrangement of the signs known as chromosomes. If the signs were rearraned yet again, I would find myself inside a wholly different body than before. "Prostitute of the mind"...
And, for powerful writing, don't even get me started on Boris and his Mongolian. I think I'll remember that scene for life.
One word of warning, though. If you're looking for a story that makes sense, this isn't it. A lot of riddles are solved along the way but, if the postmodernists will allow my borrowing of the phrase, all we end up with is a chain of signifiers attached to nothing but themselves. But dissatisfied? Hardly. Dive into this book, be pulled into the mystery of all these missing things and finally resurface with a rich meditation on the enigma of identity and the notion of the true self, of historical inevitability and the possibililty of personal transformation.
And listen to the winding of the springs.
This book was amazing. What begins as a silly mystery to find a pet cat evolves into a tale of love, devotion, betrayal, hurt, comfort, life, death, desperation, hope, good and evil. It took me a good five months to work my way completely through this book because at so many points, I would have to stop and reread a section again. Normally, this would piss me off but for Murakimi, I didn't mind. I loved going back and making new connections or witnessing new themes. With the introduction of each new character, a new layer of mystery shrouds the story but at the same time, a veil is lifted and answers are discovered.
Murakami's prose is brilliant as well. He somehow manages to stay oddly distant from his characters yet also incredibly intimate. For example, the reader only knows May Kasahara through Toru. They interact a lot in the beginning of the book and then we are privy to her letters near the end. Even though we don't know much about her, a sense of loneliness and a strong desire for friendship just radiates off of her and I felt like I connected with more than any other character in the book. I don't know much about her, but I finished the book considering her a friend.
I don't know what really happened in the book. Murakami twists reality and makes everything a dream. Through Toru we experience fantastic and horrifying things that may or may not have happened. Some things made sense, like Kumiko's adultery. Other things, like psychic prostitution, did not. I can't tell if the book is magical realism or if we're also experiencing Toru's imagination along with the actual events of the story. All I know is I loved this book and I have every intention of making this one a regular reread and devouring as much Murakami as I can get my hands on.
I would later learn that all of his work involves a strange events happening to an ordinary man. There is usually a mysterious woman and other symbols that hint at what is happening to the psyche of the main character. But the real story is about an inner journey that we need to take but usually avoid until something strange forces us to deal with it.
This saggy novel carries a number of imaginations of episodes from the Japanese occupation of Manchuria in the 30’s and 40’s. These are terrific reading mostly. Two such chapters appeared as excerpts in the New Yorker magazine. Find the back copies rather than read the tome is this reader’s advice –and [Nomohan: Japan Against Russia, 1939], by [Alvin D. Coox], cited by Murakami as a source, might well be of real interest.
The trouble is, the answer to that question is "nowhere really!". There are just too many loose ends.. Kumiko eventually explains why she left, but later partially denies it, and she never physically reappears. We never get to discover why Noburu Wataya has mysterious powers. We just about accept Malta Kano, but is her sister Creta real? Or is she a sort of fantasy conflation of Kumiko and Malta Kano?
The visit of Lieutenant Mamiya, with the empty box, and his subsequent letters seem to have nothing to do with the rest of the story (though in themselves they provide some of the most readable sections of the book). I was expecting some further revelations regarding Mr Honda, but was disappointed.
Toru is one of those ordinary people to whom extraordinary things happen-like Voltaire's Candide, or Waugh's Paul Pennyfeather in Decline and Fall. He's quite likeable in a way, though some of his behaviour is puzzling. His cultural interests seem to be entirely western - music especially, but food as well. In fact, that is a feature of the book as a whole. If you read a British or American novel in which the main characters were interested only in oriental culture, you'd think it a bit strange, wouldn't you? Perhaps even rather pretentious.
Dreams. Almost every novel I read nowadays has dreams in it. Enough already.
The incident relating to the killing of the zoo animals is well-written and engaging, but (like Lt Mamiya's reminiscences) seems to belong to another novel. We westerners know little of the war in the Far East (except for the bits involving the UK and the USA), so the unspeakable brutality and mercilessness of the Russians and Japanese is harrowing. Perhaps Murakami should use his undoubted talents to tell a story set entirely in this context.
As for May, she's like the sort of precocious teenage girl who featured in certain French films of the 1960s. The word which was used to describe such females was "kookie". May is charming and likeable, but why do we see all her letters when Toru (apparently) doesn't? After all, we know that he receives Lt Mamiya's letters, because he comments on the old-fashioned handwriting.
The book is a sort of confidence trick - the reader is drawn in by a series of mysterious events, and we keep reading in order to find out the hows and the whys...... and that's it. It's all about the creation of wonder and suspense, but the author can't come up with a satisfactory way of resolving the conundrums he has presented us with.
I think that the book would have benefited from rigorous editing.
On the surface it isn’t a compelling tale, but Murakami adds moments of spice in the form of gratuitous extreme violence and gratuitous sex, be it physical or mental (in a Murakami novel dream sex is as good as real sex). There are also a number of exceedingly dubious forays into the nature of the self, quasi-mystical communication and healing, and fashion. And of course, in keeping with Murakami’s other writing, you will encounter many references to western classical music, jazz, and pop, lots of product placement for western consumers, and, in just over 600 pages, almost no references to anything that originates in Japan.
The writing here is very flat, almost atonal. The protagonist, Toru Okada, is a near blank slate. The women characters are almost entirely reduced to their sexuality (so much so that when they cease to have sex either mentally or physically with the protagonist, they disappear from the novel altogether). On the plus side, I suppose you could say that it is a quick read. On the other hand, I feel like in a few days I won’t remember anything that happened. Not recommended.
Such a nonsensical and non-cohesive plot; as if the author had a bunch of ideas and no clue how to put them together. Oh wait, I’ll try forced allegory and wrangle every last literary theme on earth into one book. Yeah. That’ll work. I’m a Certified Genius. Ugh. At least he realized that the violent and degrading war story couldn't be presented as a whole without making the reader suicidal. Still, the rest of the story is inane.
Here are my notes as I dragged myself through this story. Yes, I had a martyr complex and actually got through the whole unbelievably idiotic thing.
Why refer to the cat as IT all the time...clearly it's a male. Weird.
The radio or boombox type thing the girl has, translated as a music machine. Later she has a radio. Odd.
Why are all the female characters intensely annoying?
All these visceral gyrations from Creta are unbearably awful. Who writes this crap? It's supposed to be shocking, exposing and hedonistic, but it's just stupid. I skipped over most of it.
The Japanese habit of calling people by first and last names is at first charming, then, after a while, grates on my nerves something awful.
I know it's supposed to be all mystical and allegorical, but it just smacks of adolescent obsessions over wet dreams.
Mai writes a letter to T complaining that no one likes her and is mystified as to why. Because you're annoying, that's why.
The narrator does some distinctive voices for this, but the one for the brother in-law's minion is the love child of Gilbert Godfrey and Peter Lorre. Ugh.
I’d have given it ½ a star, but it wasn’t badly written, just a horribly juvenile and incoherent story strung together to be as “shocking” as possible. Like a little boy scribbling swear words on the living room wall so as to get his parents to pay attention to him. Pathetic.
Of course it was well written and interesting to read though, which is always a given with Murakami!
Read in Samoa June 2002
What's special about this book though, is that Murakami keeps a very crisp and clear voice throughout. Even as the events in Toru Okada's life keep getting weirder and weirder, as the symbolic invades the mundane, the prose still stays available, accessable and exact. I'm surely not the only one thinking of Kafka's dry style as a comparison, but Murakami is much more emphatic and gentle. The mystery never becomes really nightmarish, there's more puzzlement than angst and the book leaves you with a good mix of questions and answers. It's one of those books that really bares thinking about afterwards, without making you feel shut out and stupid.
This was 740 pages well spent, and definitely not my last Murakami novel.
The book is strange -- even by Haruki Murakami standards.
For me, the elements that make Murakami’s stories work are the main characters -- the not-so-odd, kind of normal, but the end odd, slightly aloof characters that occupy the stable center of a bizarre world. They make his books oh-so plausible.
I like what one reviewer said on Goodreads about Murkami, “Basically, he’s awesome.”
Basically? Basically yes. So what else is there to write?
I read the first chapter of the book as a short story in “The Elephant Vanishes” and it works really well as a short story -- a bizarre adventure into the back alley of a neighborhood that has deep, dark secrets. If you don’t want to tackle the 600 page beast, at the very least read the short story.
The book was a revelation -- perhaps because it’s surrealism seems so realistic. Is it possible that something surrealistic can be so very realistic? It’s not so much that Murakami is able to make the surrealistic realistic, but rather that he exposes the lunacy of what we take as the normal and everyday.
The scenes depicting the brutality of the second World War struck an especially intense cord with me. In some ways, the intense violence of the war and the comfortable world of 1990s Japan couldn’t be further apart -- but they are connected by the absurdities that proliferate in both.
In many ways -- ways I cannot even begin to put into words -- these absurdities are the most accurate descriptions of evil I have come across.
Again, back to the main character -- he is the perfect main character, strange but practical and level-headed, he is open to the bizarre but also wants to make things concrete. He is me! Or at least, I think he is me.
Does it all tie together in the end? Of course it does. The book kind of ends in Nagasaki. And the author speaking through the main character asks, “Why Nagasaki?”
Indeed, why Nagasaki? Because I’m from Nagasaki, Mr. Wind Up Bird. It’s all connected in the end. Even this review.
Perhaps the most frustrating aspect of all was that there are lots of different threads to the story. I was afraid all the way through that they would never be tied together at the end, and my fears were well-founded: many threads are left hanging or unsatisfactorily tied together. What makes this even more aggravating is that there are long scenes where the main character sits around thinking about the many threads of the story and the connections between them (again in his shallow way) - so on one hand, Murakami is beating his reader over the head with some of the connections, but then at the end, lots of things are left unconnected.
That's not to say that I didn't enjoy parts of the book. It's certainly intriguing, and some of the scenes were really wonderful, but for the most part I found the main character to be aggravating and the story to be unevenly paced and disconnected.
The story speaks to a divergence in realities between a real-world normality and an other-world dream state. It is an experience that this novel expresses well in the manner of its own telling, in its effect on the reader. Another theme is the unpredictability of events, a challenge to the cause-and-effect relationship between what occurs in our daily lives, as well as in the broader world around us. Many of the characters feel lost and helpless upon sensing this as a truth. I wonder whether these are frequently recurring themes in Japanese literature? I'll be reading more Murakami and perhaps others to find out.
Ultimately though, it was COMPELLING. Despite whatever crazy, seemingly random tangent he took me on, I was riveted. I found each of the characters fascinating and wanted (and still want) to know more about them and their stories.
I have my theories about what was really happening, but I am not sure that there is a true answer here. In any case, I enjoyed it and it will stay with me.
One of Murakami's earlier works, it strays from his Short story tradition of having nameless narrators, and embarks on the characterisation of this one: Toru Okada. Not giving too much away, but he is the perfect symbol for pacifism. The story, in the simplest, bleakest, perhaps most ignorant way, is his right of passage through life in an attempt to uncover the reasons for his wife’s sudden decision to up and go. Of course, there is MUCH more too it than that.
Along the way we meet the lady on the telephone, demanding just '10 minutes' of Toru's time, in order for them to understand each other. May Kasahara, the young teen left home alone, developing a rather bleak outlook on life, and Noboru Wataya, the brother in law our gentle and passive protagonist hates intensely, yet cannot remove him from his life.
Simply summaries aside, this book is everything a good novel should be. It should leave a lasting impression, and forever change your view and outlook on things. Some characters' plight becomes yours, and there are aspects and images that cannot be removed, and forever leave you thinking. This book deserves to be read, and then re-read. Simply put, this book is literary perfection.
But there are problems with this novel. The main one is that it seems to me that Murakami wrote it to a Japanese audience. In this book and also in "Kafka on the Shore" the author is speaking clearly about a Japanese failure to grapple with its own history of the second world war. And because this is a Japanese writer talking to a Japanese audience, one feels a little like an interloper when listening in!
The tales from the war are the best narrative in the book - and the only narrative that reaches a satisfactory conclusion. This is my second Murakami novel, and the second one where the author has created more threads than are found in Toru's spaghetti - and then unceremoniously dumps them all, leaving them unresolved.
It reminds me of conceptual art, where the concept comes not from the artist but the viewer. It is like the author is saying "over to you now. Bring what concepts you like into this book". Although it also comes over as "arghh, I am bored now. Time to stop writing"
This author is very popular right now amongst a 20-something literate readership. The wisdom of crowds suggests there is something here and you should read this work. But I never like the wisdom of crowds, and if there is something special in Murakami's work, I still haven't found it, so my recommendation is to leave this book alone (unless you want to be a trendy 20-something, in which case take it to a coffee shop where people can see you reading it).
The Wind-up Bird Chronicle isn't an easy or straightforward book -At times you have almost no idea what's going on, or where things are going. Even so, it's an extremely compelling read, like a puzzle that needs solving it drives you on, trying to make the pieces match. When you're done (or when I was, at least) You're left with the feeling that everything you've read actually do match up - you're jut not sure as to how. Almost everything seems laden with symbolism: baseball bats, cats, the act of smoking or eating, every piece of music... it's a trip into the personal mythological world of the author, but with no map provided.
I would like to read (or listen to) more by this author. There must be a reason people love his books, so perhaps I've judged unfairly.
At the beginning of the book I must admit that I found the colour-by-numbers exposition gratingly simplistic, but as the deeper strcuture of the novel becomes apparent, this irritation turned into appreciation at the subtlety of Murakami's art. More than many of his contemporaries, Murakami knows how to turn the dross of the everyday into something strange and beautiful. In this book, he not only manages to dazzle with his postmodern pop culture bags of tricks; rather, he delivers a work that reaches through the wall of silence to examine the dark and seedy side of modern Japan.
While it is a polar opposite in style from Kris Saknussemm’s Zanesville, many similarities come to mind, mostly because both books deal with perceptions of the world and altered reality. Saknussemm’s work focuses on chemically altered perceptions and Murakami’s focuses on either mistaken perceptions or perception altered through purely mental manipulation. Murakami’s treatment of reality is taken from a variety of disparate sources and is reminiscent of a strange blend of Herman Hesse, New Age Philosophy, Aldus Huxley and Firesign Theatre.
If you’ve read Murakami before, many of his common themes are here: alternate realities coexisting on the same plane, the power of dreams, musical themes and ordinary people behaving in an exceptional manner. In this particular work, while the individual parts are exceptional in their own right, together, they are greater than the sum of the parts, greater even than the product of the individual parts.
If you enjoy pushing the boundaries of literary reality, this work will be a feast for you. This work has all the markings of a true literary classic in the making. It is too soon to see if Murakami has the staying power to be regarded in the same light as Hesse or Huxley, but I believe that 30, 40 or even 50 years from now, his books will still be discussed and Wind-up Bird Chronicle will be regarded as his masterpiece.