Rediscovering/reconstituting the self after the house burns down.
That's how I would describe this new novel by Haruki Murakami thus far (though I'm only about 15 percent of the way into it). It's a very long, very slow, very careful novel, which I suspect only Murakami could get away with. Nor do I believe that a writer from a western country could get away with it at all these days.
And I don't mean to be critical or disapproving. As far as I'm concerned, Murakami can take as much time as he likes. I trust him. I know that he knows what he is doing. Like my old aunt Zelma, who used to unwrap her Christmas packages very carefully so as to save the paper intact, Murakami very carefully unwraps his story, teasing the corners free, revealing one little edge of the prize at a time. It is like the painting that the protagonist here discovers in the attic. One spends hours sitting back just staring at it, taking in one thing at a time and how each relates to the other and how all relate to the whole. And then there is that curious little figure in the lower corner, the man with the strange, long face, emerging from an inexplicable hole in the ground. What can this mean? Who can this be?
One little mystery here is carefully stacked on top of another--inscrutable, beckoning, each hinting that it might be unveiled if only the observer possessed the proper key.
That's how I would describe this new novel by Haruki Murakami thus far (though I'm only about 15 percent of the way into it). It's a very long, very slow, very careful novel, which I suspect only Murakami could get away with. Nor do I believe that a writer from a western country could get away with it at all these days.
And I don't mean to be critical or disapproving. As far as I'm concerned, Murakami can take as much time as he likes. I trust him. I know that he knows what he is doing. Like my old aunt Zelma, who used to unwrap her Christmas packages very carefully so as to save the paper intact, Murakami very carefully unwraps his story, teasing the corners free, revealing one little edge of the prize at a time. It is like the painting that the protagonist here discovers in the attic. One spends hours sitting back just staring at it, taking in one thing at a time and how each relates to the other and how all relate to the whole. And then there is that curious little figure in the lower corner, the man with the strange, long face, emerging from an inexplicable hole in the ground. What can this mean? Who can this be?
One little mystery here is carefully stacked on top of another--inscrutable, beckoning, each hinting that it might be unveiled if only the observer possessed the proper key.
No comments:
Post a Comment