“Norwegian Wood” a wandering romance
Haruki Murakami is Japan’s most widely read contemporary author, though much of his material is written elsewhere; the influence of western — and pop — culture is so pervasive in his work it hardly warrants remark. Overseas, he is a critical favorite for novels whose genre might be called metaphysical detective sci-fi straight-faced absurdist. “Norwegian Wood” has been described as his most loved book. It lays genre-bending and surrealism aside to produce romance, of a sort.
The novel follows the early adulthood of introspective college student Toru Watanabe as he struggles through disaffection and towards emotional attachment in 1960s Japan. Toru was wounded in high school by the suicide of his best friend Kikuri, a tragedy that linked him to frail Naoko, Kikuri’s girlfriend in life and his mourner in death. Told through curtains of memory, an older Toru recounts his long wait for Naoko’s psychological convalescence. His passivity casts him as a Don Juan figure, who moves by chance through the lives of a series of women. Toru’s conflicting loyalties and preternatural familiarity with death make him worth reading, but his self-absorption and lack of direction prove frustrating. Though the book deserves credit for dealing with the heavy-handed emotions of a college undergrad, Toru’s deep uncertainty about his future may frustrate Swarthmore seniors facing graduation.
“Norwegian Wood” has a plot that meanders but remains unpredictable. It is full of sadness without the regret and unusual realism that is characteristic of this author. Murakami’s more bizarre predilections emerge in scenes that lend immediate interest to his characters. Naoko’s sanatorium roommate gives a startling account of her near-seduction by a demonic schoolgirl, and Toru’s friendship with a classmate is sealed when they play guitar as a neighborhood building burns to the ground. Even misty Naoko calls attention to herself when she warns of invisible bottomless wells ready to swallow the unwary. But the simple and unexplained tragedies near the heart of the story are allowed to stand on their own, and the novel is better for it; Murakami’s usual representation of chaos through the surreal would be inappropriate in a story this quiet and self-contained.