Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami
Reading Journal 004
Several years ago I read this essay by Haruki Murakami and was so intrigued by his process of writing in English (his second language) and then translating to Japanese (his first) in order to find his own unique style that I put all of his books on my TBR list. I had a hard time narrowing down which one I wanted to start with, but when I saw Norwegian Wood on a bookstore shelf, it seemed like a sign.
Here are a few things I noticed as I read:
Memory is a funny thing. When I was in the scene, I hardly paid it any mind. I never stopped to think of it as something that would make a lasting impression, certainly never imagined that eighteen years later I would recall it in such detail. I didn’t give a damn about the scenery that day. I was thinking about myself. I was thinking about the beautiful girl walking next to me. I was thinking about the two of us together, and then about myself again. Scenery was the last thing on my mind.
Now though, that meadow scene is the first thing that comes back to me. The smell of grass, the faint chill of the wind, the line of the hills, the barking of a dog: these are the first things, and they come with absolute clarity. I feel as if I can reach out and trace them with a fingertip. And yet, as clear as the scene may be, no one is in it.
Well damn. That just about sums up every single memory in my mind and makes me feel just a bit better about the struggles I’ve had in writing this book project of mine. Somehow I can always come up with the scene, but putting the people in it feels impossible. And yet, I know when I was living it I was not paying attention to the scene itself; it’s not something I do. I pay attention to the people around me, but my mind wanders and instead of paying attention to the things around me, I think about what needs to happen next.
So why is it that the piece of memory that feels easiest to write about is the scenery, not the people themselves?
“What happens when people open their hearts?”
Cigarette dangling from her lips, Reiko clasped her hands together on the table. She was enjoying this. “They get better,” she said. Her ashes dropped onto the table, but she paid them no mind.
This is a HUGE quote for the entire trajectory of the book, found in Chapter 6, and the dialogue is just so casually dropped right in the middle of the scene. I’m in awe of how he does this. By using very little dialogue and dropping it in the middle of a very ordinary scene, he packs a punch with a few words. As a reader, I am not punched by her words, but instead, like ashes gently dropping, I’m left to find the weight of her words in my own life.
I lay there for a long time, letting my mind wander from one memory to another. For some strange reason, lying down in this room seemed to bring back old memories that I had rarely if ever recalled before. Some of them were pleasant, but others carried a trace of sadness.
It’s funny how when given the time and space, and the quiet, memories can flood our brains. When I stop—stop moving, stop planning, stop thinking—and just allow myself to lie down and be still, that’s when the memories flood. Because it takes vulnerability and a willingness to really allow the emotions to wash over me, I really have a hard time letting myself get to this place.
This also makes me think of how easily memories come back when I visit a place where the memory happened. Sometimes, when the memory is stuck, taking a trip back to the place can help dislodge the scene.
“There’s no need to raise your voice here. You don’t have to convince anybody of anything, and you don’t have to attract anyone’s attention.”
This is what I want my home to be like. I want it to be a place where no one has to convince anyone else; where everyone’s opinions are welcome; where everyone is given the attention they desire or need without anyone ever raising their voice.
“Don’t you think it would be wonderful to get rid of everything and everybody and just go someplace where you don’t know a soul?”
Yes. This is the heart of my memoir. We did think it would be wonderful. And yet. It was also one of the hardest things we’ve ever experienced together. The fact that this question is used as dialogue in a novel boosts my confidence in knowing that my story includes universal themes. I am not the only person in the world who has a wandering (or wondering) heart.
It’s hard for me to say whether I liked the book or not. I did not enjoy reading it as much as I hoped, yet I also couldn’t leave it unfinished. There’s quite a bit of sexual promiscuity throughout the book, which made me uncomfortable, but also made me curious about WHY I was uncomfortable about it. It made me wonder: Is Japanese culture different when it comes to sexuality? Am I really just an old Puritan prude?
In the end, I was impressed by the simplicity of Marukami’s writing. He manages to go very deep in what at times feels like a very boring story, which makes me want to re-read it not for enjoyment but to understand how he does it.
Until next time,
You've made me want to read the book :)