I had the privilege to meet you 5 years ago when a friend of mine handed me her copy of Norwegian Wood. The spine of the book had folds; the pages showed some tanning, dog-eared. Giving it a shot wouldn’t hurt, I thought to myself.
Weekend came and given the right amount of motivation and curiosity, I started reading it, unaware of the passing time. I forgot to sleep. Thanks to the soda I downed while reading.
Apparently, people read to find answers to their questions but the moment I finished the book, it posed more questions. But in a good way. The pleasure only uncertainty and ambiguity could give.
I had so many queries about your books that baffled me for some time but now I prefer them not answered. Maybe it’s your intention to let us, your readers, come up with our own version. Perhaps our interpretations are also based on our own realities.
Most of my questions are rhetorical. Questions out of awe. Like how could you put into words the innermost thoughts of a person, which is a very complex living creature? The characters were realistic, if not fully. Maybe some of the qualities of your characters are extreme. Okay maybe this varies depending on the network your readers personally know.
But one thing’s for sure: I found myself in almost every character in your books. Maybe it’s how they make their coffee, the way they quaffed their beer, the way they stammer, act dismissive, manage anxieties, muster courage and take risks.
I became Midori, Aomame, Nakata, Fuka-eri, the cats, the toughest 15-year-old Kafka, your nameless protagonists.
Like my friend told me the other day, you “captured her loneliness in a perfect way.” I couldn’t agree more. You made me feel we weren’t alone in our struggles. We felt understood. We became less afraid of judgment. And ultimately, you gave us a way to understand ourselves better and love the traits in us that the world didn’t care to notice.
So I told my friend, well, Murakami is like the best thing we never knew we needed.
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