“Unsettled” is the feeling inside of me, as I have just finished reading this Haruki Murakami book. Riddles, music, metaphysics, dreams, humans conversing with cats… very mind-boggling. But nowhere, throughout a very detailed book does the plot slow down or lose steam. The story of fifteen year old Kafka Tamura, who runs away from home to escape an Oedipal curse, is one of many loose end and theories, as the author puts it. So many strange things happen so convincingly throughout the book that I’m almost sure that the next cat I come across will pleasantly say hello to me.
The shifting, slightly floaty terrains of the mind, the concept of promises and unrequited love, the physical waves of adolescence, the nausea of dreams, these themes are made to converge on a plane outside of normal intelligence. A steady dose of Beethoven and other composers, discussions of art and books, and the silent longing behind a painting that’s called “Kafka on the Shore”… I was riveted. The writing was so absorbing that one can float upwards outside of their skin and not feel anything. Enough said, it is a worth read.
Quote: Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
PS: Recommended only if you are in the mood to let your imagination speak to cats and befriend stones, if you want to meet Johnnie Walker and Colonel Sanders.