In the well

I devoured yet another Murakami. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle accompanied me on my journey back to the field. It contains the usual strange combination of a beautiful language that retains some of its exotic appeal even in translation, of a story full of magic and desire, of metaphors out of the ordinary. The boy goes down a well to think and is able to perceive the stars better from there. He later on goes through the walls of this well, deep down, and gets to a hotel room in an attempt to bring back his wife. The dream narrative is, at times, stronger and more appealing than the real one, and progressively both get entwined in twisted ways. It is a story of pain and torture, of being in one’s skin and being skinned and being within the mind, and of being inadequate and set into patterns of being-together, and of being restless and alone and of the tinkling of spoons on metal in clean, modern kitchens in the expectation of guests. It is a story about the powers that move people and cats. I was disappointed of but one thing: not enough love story here, as the wife is mainly absent and prostitutes of the mind are too eerie to be considered, meaningfully, partners. I am not sure, however, whether the Chronicle is the best way into Murakami-Land. For that, I recommend Sweetheart Sputnik or Norwegian Wood.