The thing about Haruki Murakami, you can’t stop living in his words.
Words and worlds are two different entities. You live in a world, but you don’t live in a world of words. You enjoy the words, you feel them, you can almost touch them, but you can’t. Because it’s words, not a world of words. It is intangible.
I spent the last couple of months drifting back and forth among various writers like Murakami, Faulkner, Sartre, Wilde, and Tolstoy. To be frank, I find Murakami to be the most enjoyable.
His choice of words, his first-person point of view, his rants that brings in you, as a reader into the book, and asking questions as if expecting you to answer it, never cease to amaze me. What brings me deep into his books is his way of changing the subject abruptly. The way how only the last two paragraphs relates to the title of the story. Everything else is his rant. And only the last two paragraphs brings you what is going on in the ‘real’ world.
There’s never a straight answer in his books. It always starts of with a mysterious, almost super natural event or person. But the origins of that super natural event or person is rarely explained. It kept me wondering, it kept me reading.
There are so many minute details of the main characters in his books, but their backgrounds or histories are almost never mentioned.
It’s like how relationships start. You jump right in into a person’s life suddenly, never got to know the exact details of his background or history. And you keep wanting to know more, you keep on going, you keep on turning the pages.