4.4
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19,007 ratings
From the bestselling author of Kafka on the Shore: A magnificent coming-of-age story steeped in nostalgia, “a masterly novel” (The New York Times Book Review) blending the music, the mood, and the ethos that were the sixties with a young man’s hopeless and heroic first love.
Now with a new introduction by the author.
Toru, a serious young college student in Tokyo, is devoted to Naoko, a beautiful and introspective young woman, but their mutual passion is marked by the tragic death of their best friend years before. As Naoko retreats further into her own world, Toru finds himself drawn to a fiercely independent and sexually liberated young woman.
Stunning and elegiac, Norwegian Wood first propelled Haruki Murakami into the forefront of the literary scene.
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ISBN-10
0375704027
ISBN-13
978-0375704024
Print length
298 pages
Language
English
Publisher
Vintage
Publication date
September 11, 2000
Dimensions
5.17 x 0.68 x 7.97 inches
Item weight
8 ounces
If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.
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When you’re surrounded by endless possibilities, one of the hardest things you can do is pass them up.
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“Don’t feel sorry for yourself,” he said. “Only assholes do that.”
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“Don’t feel sorry for yourself,” he said. “Only assholes do that.”
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B003XT603Q
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4277 KB
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“A masterly novel.... Norwegian Wood bears the unmistakable marks of Murakami’s hand.” —The New York Times Book Review
“Norwegian Wood...not only points to but manifests the author’s genius.” —Chicago Tribune
“[A] treat...Murakami captures the heartbeat of his generation and draws the reader in so completely you mourn when the story is done.” —The Baltimore Sun
“Vintage Murakami [and] easily the most erotic of [his] novels.” —Los Angeles Times Book Review
One
I was thirty-seven then, strapped in my seat as the huge 747 plunged through dense cloud cover on approach to the Hamburg airport. Cold November rains drenched the earth and lent everything the gloomy air of a Flemish landscape: the ground crew in rain gear, a flag atop a squat airport building, a BMW billboard. So-Germany again.
Once the plane was on the ground, soft music began to flow from the ceiling speakers: a sweet orchestral cover version of the Beatles' "Norwegian Wood." The melody never failed to send a shudder through me, but this time it hit me harder than ever.
I bent forward in my seat, face in hands to keep my skull from splitting open. Before long one of the German stewardesses approached and asked in English if I were sick. "No," I said, "just dizzy."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. Thanks."
She smiled and left, and the music changed to a Billy Joel tune. I straightened up and looked out the plane window at the dark clouds hanging over the North Sea, thinking of what I had lost in the course of my life: times gone forever, friends who had died or disappeared, feelings I would never know again.
The plane reached the gate. People began unlatching their seatbelts and pulling baggage from the storage bins, and all the while I was in the meadow. I could smell the grass, feel the wind on my face, hear the cries of the birds. Autumn 1969, and soon I would be twenty.
The stewardess came to check on me again. This time she sat next to me and asked if I was all right.
"I'm fine, thanks," I said with a smile. "Just feeling kind of blue."
"I know what you mean," she said. "It happens to me, too, every once in a while."
She stood and gave me a lovely smile. "Well, then, have a nice trip. Auf Wiedersehen."
"Auf Wiedersehen.
Eighteen years have gone by, and still I can bring back every detail of that day in the meadow. Washed clean of summer's dust by days of gentle rain, the mountains wore a deep, brilliant green. The October breeze set white fronds of head-tall grasses swaying. One long streak of cloud hung pasted across a dome of frozen blue. It almost hurt to look at that faroff sky. A puff of wind swept across the meadow and through her hair before it slipped into the woods to rustle branches and send back snatches of distant barking-a hazy sound that seemed to reach us from the doorway to another world. We heard no other sounds. We met no other people. We saw only two bright, red birds leap startled from the center of the meadow and dart into the woods. As we ambled along, Naoko spoke to me of wells.
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. It was the age, that time of life when every sight, every feeling, every thought came back, like a boomerang, to me. And worse, I was in love. Love with complications. 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 the 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. No one. Naoko is not there, and neither am I. Where could we have disappeared to? How could such a thing have happened? Everything that seemed so important back then-Naoko, and the self I was then, and the world I had then: where could they have all gone? It's true, I can't even bring back Naoko's face-not right away, at least. All I'm left holding is a background, sheer scenery, with no people up front.
True, given time enough, I can bring back her face. I start joining images-her tiny, cold hand; her straight, black hair so smooth and cool to the touch; a soft, rounded earlobe and the microscopic mole just beneath it; the camel's hair coat she wore in the winter; her habit of looking straight into your eyes when asking a question; the slight trembling that would come to her voice now and then (as if she were speaking on a windy hilltop)-and suddenly her face is there, always in profile at first, because Naoko and I were always out walking together, side by side. Then she turns to me, and smiles, and tilts her head just a bit, and begins to speak, and she looks into my eyes as if trying to catch the image of a minnow that has darted across the pool of a limpid spring.
I do need that time, though, for Naoko's face to appear. And as the years have passed, the time has grown longer. The sad truth is that what I could recall in five seconds all too soon needed ten, then thirty, then a full minute-like shadows lengthening at dusk. Someday, I suppose, the shadows will be swallowed up in darkness. There is no way around it: my memory is growing ever more distant from the spot where Naoko used to stand-ever more distant from the spot where my old self used to stand. And nothing but scenery, that view of the meadow in October, returns again and again to me like a symbolic scene in a movie. Each time it appears, it delivers a kick to some part of my mind. "Wake up," it says. "I'm still here. Wake up and think about it. Think about why I'm still here." The kicking never hurts me. There's no pain at all. just a hollow sound that echoes with each kick. And even that is bound to fade one day. At the Hamburg airport, though, the kicks were longer and harder than usual. Which is why I am writing this book. To think. To understand. It just happens to be the way I'm made. I have to write things down to feel I fully comprehend them.
Let's see, now, what was Naoko talking about that day?
Of course: the "field well." I have no idea whether such a well ever existed, It might have been an image or a sign that existed only inside Naoko, like all the other things she used to spin into existence inside her mind in those dark days. Once she had described it to me, though, I was never able to think of that meadow scene without the well. From that day forward, the image of a thing I had never laid eyes on became inseparably fused to the actual scene of the field that lay before me. I can go so far as to describe the well in minute detail. It lay precisely on the border where the meadow ended and the woods began-a dark opening in the earth a yard across, hidden by the meadow grass. Nothing marked its perimeter-no fence, no stone curb (at least not one that rose above ground level). It was nothing but a hole, a mouth open wide. The stones of its collar had been weathered and turned a strange muddy white. They were cracked and had chunks missing, and a little green lizard slithered into an open seam. You could lean over the edge and peer down to see nothing. All I knew about the well was its frightening depth. It was deep beyond measuring, and crammed full of darkness, as if all the world's darknesses had been boiled down to their ultimate density.
"It's really, really deep," said Naoko, choosing her words with care. She would speak that way sometimes, slowing down to find the exact word she was looking for. "But no one knows where it is," she continued. "The one thing I know for sure is that it's around here somewhere."
Hands thrust into the pockets of her tweed jacket, she smiled at me as if to say "It's true!"
"Then it must be incredibly dangerous," I said. "A deep well, but nobody knows where it is. You could fall in and that'd be the end of you."
"The end. Aaaaaaaah, splat. Finished."
"Things like that must actually happen."
"They do, every once in a while. Maybe once in two or three years. Somebody disappears all of a sudden, and they just can't find him. So then the people around here say, 'Oh, he fell in the field well.'"
"Not a nice way to die," I said.
"No, it's a terrible way to die," said Naoko, brushing a cluster of grass seed from her jacket. "The best thing would be to break your neck, but you'd probably just break your leg and then you couldn't do a thing. You'd yell at the top of your lungs, but nobody'd hear you, and you couldn't expect anybody to find you, and you'd have centipedes and spiders crawling all over you, and the bones of the ones who died before are scattered all around you, and it's dark and soggy, and way overhead there's this tiny, tiny circle of light like a winter moon. You die there in this place, little by little, all by yourself."
"Yuck, just thinking about it makes my flesh creep," I said. "'Somebody should find the thing and build a wall around it."
"But nobody can find it. So make sure you don't go off the path."
"Don't worry, I won't."
Naoko took her left hand from her pocket and squeezed my hand. "Don't you worry" she said. "You'll be O.K. You could go running all around here in the middle of the night and you'd never fall into the well. And as long as I stick with you, I won't fall in, either."
"Never?"
"Never!"
"How can you be so sure?"
"I just know," she said, increasing her grip on my hand and continuing on for a ways in silence. "I know these things. I'm always right. It's got nothing to do with logic: I just feel it. For example, when I'm really close to you like this, I'm not the least bit scared. Nothing dark or evil could ever tempt me."
"Well, that answers that," I said. "All you have to do is stay with me like this all the time."
"Do you mean that?"
"Of course I mean it."
Naoko stopped short. So did I. She put her hands on my shoulders and peered into my eyes. Deep within her own pupils a heavy, black liquid swirled in a strange whirlpool pattern. Those beautiful eyes of hers were looking inside me for a long, long time. Then she stretched to her full height and touched her cheek to mine. It was a marvelous, warm gesture that stopped my heart for a moment.
"Thank you," she said.
"My pleasure," I answered.
"I'm so happy you said that, Really happy," she said with a sad smile. "But it's impossible."
"Impossible? Why?"
"It would be wrong. It would be terrible. It-"
Naoko clamped her mouth shut and started walking again. I could tell that all kinds of thoughts were whirling around in her head, so rather than intrude on them I kept silent and walked by her side.
"It would just be wrong-wrong for you, wrong for me," she said after a long pause.
"Wrong how?" I murmured.
"Don't you see? It's just not possible for one person to watch over another person for ever and ever. I mean, say we got married. You'd have to go to work during the day. Who's going to watch over me while you're away? Or say you have to go on a business trip, who's going to watch over me then? Can I be glued to you every minute of our lives? What kind of equality would there be in that? What kind of relationship would that be? Sooner or later you'd get sick of me. You'd wonder what you were doing with your life, why you were spending all your time babysitting this woman. I couldn't stand that. It wouldn't solve any of my problems."
"But your problems are not going to continue for the rest of your life," I said, touching her back. "They'll end eventually. And when they do, we'll stop and think about how to go on from there. Maybe you will have to help me. We're not running our lives according to some account book. If you need me, use me. Don't you see? Why do you have to be so rigid? Relax, let your guard down. You're all tensed up so you always expect the worst. Relax your body, and the rest of you will lighten up."
"How can you say that?" she asked in a voice drained of feeling.
Naoko's voice alerted me to the possibility that I had said something I shouldn't have.
"Tell me how you could say such a thing," she said, staring down at the ground beneath her feet. "You're not telling me anything I don't know already. 'Relax your body, and the rest of you will lighten up' What's the point of saying that to me? If I relaxed my body now, I'd fall apart. I've always lived like this, and it's the only way I know how to go on living. If I relaxed for a second, I'd never find my way back. I'd go to pieces, and the pieces would be blown away. Why can't you see that? How can you talk about watching over me if you can't see that?"
I said nothing in return.
"I'm confused. Really confused. And it's a lot deeper than you think. Deeper . . . darker . . . colder. But tell me something. How could you have slept with me that time? How could you have done such a thing? Why didn't you just leave me alone?"
Now we were walking through the frightful silence of a pine wood. The desiccated corpses of cicadas that had died at the end of the summer littered the surface of the path, crunching beneath our shoes. As if searching for something we'd lost, Naoko and I continued slowly down the path in the woods.
"I'm sorry," she said, taking my arm and shaking her head. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Try not to let what I said bother you. Really, I'm sorry. I was just angry at myself."
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Haruki Murakami
Haruki Murakami was born in Kyoto in 1949 and now lives near Tokyo. His work has been translated into more than fifty languages, and the most recent of his many international honors is the Jerusalem Prize, whose previous recipients include J. M. Coetzee, Milan Kundera, and V. S. Naipaul.
Customer reviews
4.4 out of 5
19,007 global ratings
Kindle Customer
5
I'm crying
Reviewed in the United States on May 18, 2024
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No you're crying
Even though I have never experienced a loss like the one described in the book, I felt so many emotions like I was right there with Watanabe.
I feel like I'm going to re-read this book and still enjoy it as if I were reading it for the first time. Or maybe Ill re-read it and realize the book wasn't as good as I remembered. I'm 21 years old right now so I feel like I read this book at the perfect stage in my life.
Not really a book review but more of a personal journal type thing.
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Sean Li
5
A meditation on love and loss
Reviewed in the United States on April 24, 2024
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It feels like a tale that's told over a pot of loose leaf tea as the sun sets. It has a time, and a setting, and a world, and for all of that, it feels timeless; it is a story simply about the paths of individuals, coming together, and coming apart, and coming to an end.
It is a love story told in quotes, a romance that's only ever bitter, a relationship that feels like trying to find one's way through a dark forest wreathed in fog.
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P. J. Owen
5
A coming of age story that you won't be able to put down
Reviewed in the United States on May 8, 2011
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Murakami is someone I've never fully embraced, yet keep coming back to. I don't like some of the fantastic and surreal elements of his writing, but I'm also drawn by the energy, intelligence, and inventiveness of it. And I also love how he infuses his work with elements of Western culture, especially music.
Norwegian Wood is a straight-on story about love and loss, and coming of age. It's not cluttered by any surrealism or fantasy. And it's loaded with musical references to classical and jazz, as well as the Western rock music of the late sixties. (As the title would suggest.) Thus, Norwegian Wood was exactly the right Murakami book to pick up next, the one book to push me further into his work.
It tells the story of Toru Watanabe, a college freshman living in Tokyo. Like many young men his age, he doesn't know what he wants to do with his life, and majors in drama for no real reason. And like many men his age, women both complicate and clarify things.
He has relationships with two completely different women: the troubled and introspective Naoko and the outgoing and spunky Midori. Naoko poses the most trouble for Toru for many reasons. First, she's the ex-girlfriend of Toru's best friend in high school, Kizuki, who committed suicide at 17. Kizuki's death had a major impact on both friends. For Naoko, she lost not just a boyfriend, but someone she had known since childhood, someone who had become almost a part of herself. For Toru, his friend's suicide changed his perspective on life, filling everything with the taste of death. `Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it', becomes his new motto.
So when Toru and Naoko meet again, accidentally, on the subway, there's a connection, but a troubled one. The ghost of Kizuki hangs over them. They begin with odd walks through the city, Toru trailing Naoko like a puppy. But eventually a form of love develops. Once things eventually come to a head on her 20th birthday, their relationship becomes further complicated as Naoko runs away to a kind of sanatorium in the mountains over Kyoto. Months pass before Toru even knows where she's gone, and he lives in a sort of limbo, going to school, working at a record store. Waiting.
Meanwhile, he meets Midori, a fellow drama student. They form an immediate bond, though she has a boyfriend and has her own problems with her troubled family life, including a father dying of brain cancer. They become fast friends, and Toru finds himself attracted to her despite the pain he still feels at the loss of Naoko.
Of course, Naoko muddies the waters again by writing him to tell him where she is and inviting him to visit. There he meets Naoko's roommate, Reiko, an older woman with a talent for music. The three spend much time sitting around while Reiko plays guitar for them, including Naoko's favorite song, Norwegian Wood. In a sense, Reiko becomes the third woman in Toru's life, because she is open, and they develop a friendship in his short time there. With Naoko, he learns some more about her issues, but just enough happens to keep him connected to her, not enough to resolve their love. He is still in a limbo.
Murakami teases the frustrations of this state out of Toru. Toru agonizes over his dilemma, stuck between a woman he loves but can't have and a great woman he can have. Midori begins to fall for him and pressures him. But he's waiting for something to happen. Of course, something does. But then what? Has he waited too long?
This is a great story, but it is further strengthened by great characters. Besides Toru and Midori, whose honest, straight-forward manners combine with deep vulnerabilities to make them both irresistible, Murakami fills the landscape with great supporting actors as well. Reiko steals each scene she walks into. Toru's anal roommate "Storm Trooper" makes for some good laughs, and is a great source of conversation for Toru. Nagasawa is a privileged student of an elite university who is drawn to Toru through a shared love of Western literature and uses his influence to help Toru out of a few jams. Yet his arrogance and womanizing also adds a layer of complexity to the friendship, as these traits both compel and repulse Toru. The characters really make this book hard to put down.
Norwegian Wood is a great read and will definitely keep me on the path to reading more Murakami.
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Phred
4
Murakami, not quite coming of age as a writer
Reviewed in the United States on November 10, 2016
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Bottom Line First: Haruki Murakami’s fifth book, Norwegian Wood was his break out book as a major Japanese novelist. It is not the fantasy reality of his later works. This is a more personal book and more focused on people, moods and feelings. It has serious emotional depth and some wasted space. Were I not coming into this book as a fan, I am not sure I would have determined to read all of his titles. Recommendation a definite read for like minded fans, a bit troublesome for the uninitiated but a good story of a time place and age.
The narrator and central character of Norwegian Wood, Toru Watanabe is a relatively impecunious collage freshman in a lessor Japanese collage. He is socially withdrawn and emotionally uncertain. He was the last person to see his very close childhood friend before the friend committed suicide and through him he has a very close feeling for his late friend’s girlfriend Naoko. They are both survivors of the suicide and both having to understand who they are absent this person who had been their common center.
Much of this 400 page novel is about Watananbe trying to understand who he is and how he best fits into the lager world after leaving home. This world is the Japan of the 1960’s where student can take over the campus and politics as much as money influence your social standing. He is has a powerful bond with Naoko and will become deeply involved with a stronger, elusive female college classmate Midori. Watanabe is alternately a good person, instantly able to, for example, identify with and bond with Midori’s dying father. He is just as capable of using his socially adept and well healed collage chum to cruise the bars to pick up and sleep with random faceless women. He does not like any of his male classmates and he has a particular distaste for the man he uses for a variety of favors.
Most of Norwegian Wood is about how Wanatabe alternately indulges and pushes himself while allowing events and people to flow around him. He is capable of being very gentle and understanding. Or he is being passive and accepting. One expects that he would make a very good psychotherapist, or at least a counselor of some type. For all this the word I kept associating with him was ‘Passive”.
I have to agree with other reviewers who feel this book has been padded out. It may be that in the original, many of the overly detailed descriptive passages are lyrical, but too often I found them a needless demand on my time. Murakami can set a mood and bring you into people’s minds but at this point he is not always sure why he brought you there.
Norwegian Wood s early Murakami. It is not his best. He will keep many themes and backgrounds in later works. I liked this book, even if at times, I wanted Watanabe to take a stand, to take charge and for the writer to speed things up.
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ET
3
Somewhat Disappointing Manga Surrealism
Reviewed in the United States on January 7, 2023
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I ordered this book to see what the fuss over Murakami was all about, especially among the New York literati. I looked up rankings of Murakami's books and lists of his highest-rated books, and this came out consistently near the top. I'm not sure what I was expecting, perhaps something deeply philosophical and beautifully written. But I learned something very important from this book, and that is that there's a difference between a good story and good literature, and Norwegian Wood is the former but not the latter.
The story underlying Norwegian Wood is fundamentally a good story, but the prose is terrible, and none of the female characters, except for Reiko, are written realistically, and there is too much pornographic detail in the sex scenes compared to the level of detail devoted to the other minutiae of the story's content. Some of those scenes are downright misogynistic.
First, let's talk about the story. Murakami is skillful in setting up situations and moods that are underscored with a feeling of mystery and unpredictability beneath a banal surface, where you sense anything at all can happen for reasons you can't explain but can intuit, rather like in a dream. He also has made a penchant for tackling subjects that perhaps traditional or high Japanese culture has been hesitant to address: mental illness, depression, suicide, LGBTQ issues, female sexuality, nihilism, and apathy toward a typical modern work ethic. Perhaps it's healthy for a society that hasn't addressed these themes to do so. The problem is that these themes are nothing new to the West, which has been addressing them in the arts for at least a century. Perhaps this is why Americans feel so comfortable with Murakami's work.
After a while, though, all the depression and isolation in the book seems fetishized, like a type of pornography of alienation, with no cause other than the desire of the author to savor it. And few viable solutions as well. I mean, don't these depressed, lonely kids have their parents and family and friends to talk to? If Murakami is making a statement about the negative effects of a workaholic culture on its members, I'd be interested to hear more about that. But we don't really. The story has a few good touches, such as when Toru and Midori have lunch in her apartment while detachedly watching an apartment fire from across the street, and when Toru feeds her dying father cucumbers in the hospital. Otherwise, we just kind of watch these kids wander around and get lost.
But let's now talk about the prose. New York reviewers tend to call it "spare" but that's a bit too flattering. It's inarticulate, cliched, and hackneyed. It sounds like it was written by a teenager. You might try to defend the prose since the tale is told from the viewpoint of a teenage college student, but it's NOT told from the viewpoint of a teenage college student. It's told from the viewpoint of a 37-year-old man RECALLING his days as a teenage college student, so the prose SHOULD be richer and more sophisticated, but it's not. The narrator talks like this because Murakami writes like this. And he writes like this because he knows his audiences respond well to simple vocabularies and phrases and that this sells more books. It's just a cheap ploy for a wider audience. I felt like I was reading an article from Cosmopolitan magazine, like I was cheating myself out of a richer reading experience I could have gotten from another book.
Now let's talk about the female characters. Aside from Reiko, none of them seem real, and none of them behave in a way that a woman, or any real human person, would plausibly behave. Naoko is a diaphanous abstraction. Midori is a Manic Pixie Dream Girl. Hatsumi suffers too willingly under Nagasawa. They all seem to exist as vessels for male desires or absorbers of male suffering. Even Reiko, who is the realest and most likeable person in the book, has a backstory that is bizarrely implausible. She, a woman in her 30s, tells of being sexually assaulted by an oversexed, sociopathic, lesbian 13-year-old. When has that type of thing ever happened? When does that ever happen? When and where has such a girl ever existed? Only the in the misogynistic fantasies of male authors, perhaps. That's where. The backstory is so incongruous and unbelievable that it undermines the efforts of the author to have Reiko appear so trustworthy. It really comes across as another revelation of the author's sexual tastes that litter his books and seems to serve no other purpose.
Norwegian Wood gets tiresome sometimes in its descriptions of mundane activities, of eating, drinking, studying, and laundry. It's typically during the sex scenes where the detail begins to blossom into more flowery descriptions, but for no good reason save for perhaps the author's own desires and tastes. After a while, it becomes embarrassingly obvious that Murakami is attracted to underage girls with large breasts and that he likes manual sex, penchants that become even clearer while reading Kafka on the Shore. After a while, I wouldn't have found it surprising if Toru had ended up having sex with his male friends. After all, they're the only ones left he hadn't had sex with by the end of the book.
So lurid is the sex in this book, and so fetishized is the depression, and so flat is its prose that I wouldn't regard this as high literature at all. It comes across as pulp surrealism, or manga surrealism, an interesting tale told in a lowbrow way. Norwegian Wood is really not much more than high-priced pulp fiction. There's not much that's wrong with pulp fiction, either. Just don't pretend that it's high literature while selling it for the very same salacious reasons that pulp appeals to a mass audience. If this is considered Murakami's best book, I'm kind of not looking forward to reading any others. After this and the Kafka book, I'll give him one last try. If I don't feel good after reading the Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, I'm giving up on Murakami altogether and I'm sticking with Hesse, Kafka (the real thing), and Schulz.
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