How this book became one of Murakami's most famous and popular baffles me. In fact, when asked about it in an interview, Murakami himself said that he was puzzled by its popularity and that it really isn't what he wants to be known for.

What can I say? There's too little of the characters that do spark my interest and much too much of the depressive girlfriend and her kooky friend at the mental institution. Also, the scenes which were supposed to be funny about his college roommate didn't interest me at all and ultimately struck me as dark and disturbing.

Perhaps this book resonated with so many people because there were four suicides in it? No, that can't be. Murakami deals with depression much more thoughtfully and insightfully in The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

The worst thing about this book's popularity is that it may be some readers' introduction to Murakami, which would very likely lead them to form a negative opinion of him and not care to explore his other works, which is just awful. This book should come with a warning: "Not recommended for pregnant women, may be carcinogenic, and not representative of Murakami's great genius."

لحين كتابة مراجعة مفصَّلة(الشيء الذي لن يحدث غالبًا)، عايز أقول إن موراكامي أكتر كاتب بيلمسني وبلاقي نفسي في رواياته، خصوصًا هذه الرواية، لذلك هسيب دي هنا

Beyond awful and abhorrent never write again. Some of y’all’s ratings cannot be fucking for real and I need to see an unedited FULL reading experience vlog immediately because it’s either you skipped a decent amount of pages (most of them) or you’re lying because there is nooo WAY I’m seeing these 5 even 4 stars ratings on this one. (I did, in fact, unfriended some of you)

This entire ‘book’ (*bunch of dreadful poorly arranged sentences that fail to make someone interested or create a real plot) is a crime against female characters in all fiction. Has got to be truly the worst portrayals of women i’ve ever seen *especially* to be this critically acclaimed. No female characters have ever manic pixie dream girled as hard as the women in this book, and all these men who eat that up and love this book are in fact, a bunch of losers who crave the same foolish pitiful things as the author of this does and wrote about. They can’t get enoughhh of these stupid, gross, weird, disturbing, out of pocket USELESS sex scenes and they alll want to see themselves as the ״cool״ (*pathetically lame, bland and tedious) narrator who for some *very* believable reason has allll the bitches crawling and grabbing at his feet. All hyper sexual especially with him, in deep need to suck/rub him off 24/7, prioritising his needs and pleasure above anything concerning them, and I could go onnn and onnnnn. Gee, I wonder what would men find in this?

Need to desperately know why the hell can men write these type of sex scenes or generally things of any sexual nature about women and publish it. Why do we as a society let this happen? Why don’t I see more people condemn it??
Not only do people let it slide but some PRAISE??? these elements in this book?? Written in the 1980, set in the 1960 and contains very vivid descriptions about how a (surprisingly veryyy sexually knowledgeable and experienced) 13 year old girl (with huge boobs, yes) sexually assaulted a 30 year old woman, and how that said woman was sooo incredibly turned on by that?? GUYS?? A 13 YEAR OLD GIRL FOR FUCK’S SAKE. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK WENT WRONG IN THIS AUTHOR’S CHILDHOOD AND BRAIN CHEMISTRY FOR HIM TO WRITE THIS??? why on EARTH would that be a plot line in ANYTHING?? EVER??????
Later on the same woman also describes to the narrator IN HEAVY DETAILS how she ‘made love’ with her husband that same night and came oh so aggressively hard since she was still so completely turned on like never ever before by what happened with that girl. guys I COULDNT EVEN MAKE SOMETHING LIKE THAT UP EVEN IF I REALLYY WANTED TO

Truly jumpscared and horrified by the vocabulary in this so i thought you people should get a heads up (if you’re lucky enough to have not read this abomination) about the actual content since for some reason it does NOT have a reputation of what it actually contains. Y’all can’t even say i’m lying about the obsession male writers have with the word breast/s. 22 times in this book alone. 22!!!!! Brother… Honourable (if you can even use this word for this context) mentions to the word ‘penis’ with 12 times. 10 times for ‘wank/ing’. I didn’t even know or encountered this verb before reading this book. ‘Nipple/s’ 9 times. Yes, apparently, it wasn’t enough for him to say breasts this many times. 7 times for ‘porn’. ‘Erection’ 6. Also 6 for the pair of words ‘her warm/th’ (go figure). 6 times for ‘masturbate’. 3 times ‘pubic’. I know. Oddly enough ‘rape’ 3 times. Yes, each time more disturbing and pointless than the one before. I’m sure that I’m leaving out some other goodd solid classic worthy vocabulary that I’m forgetting but i think the point is made. If I want to be reallyyyy petty, ‘sex’ around 30 times. I want you to compare it to the average smut book people love to shame women about and the outcome will be shocking. (Not to me)

After this book i never EVER want to hear any complaints about “smut” books written by women. This was pure porn but with *no* warning (??!?!) that only made me suffer and cringe. I’ve read wattpad stories classified as pure smut with better plots when I was 13. Only criticised when women write it but when it’s men and they do it awfully everyone claps? Call it literature? A CLASSIC? I need to see people start giving the same energy AND WORST to this garbage.

Putting aside the representation of female characters to the people who would whine about how I am missing the good parts I will address the ‘rest’ (two pages collectively maybe). first, these ‘deeper concepts’ that you’re trying to give this novel credit for are incredibly overshadowed by everything else that I’ve mentioned. you would have to look *extensively* in order to just find a *glimpse* of them, and if this is the amount that makes you glorify a book that’s just miserable and pathetic.
This is yet another book by a male author that is described as sad deep and philosophical but falls flat due to the its unoriginality and mediocre empty measly sad excuse of a plot.
If people think that the observations and concepts shown in this are exceptional I am worried about your cognitive abilities.

Sure, the life and death, existentialism, etc themes were… there.. i guess,? but you know that saying ‘grown men will have a “philosophical” thought that they would call revolutionary but girls already had that same thought when they were 13’? Prime example. Books written by men, especially those who are (for some very odd reason) deemed as ‘profound/philosophical’ are the *epitome* of this.

One thing you will never see me doing is giving a shitty misogynistic “classic” (or any shitty book really) credit for at least having “good writing”. First, each time it’s actually lousy at best and farrrr from being a compensation for the rest of the book. Plus in this case specifically, maybe some could blame the translation, but the dialogue and writing are childish, superficial, odd and weak. Again, the “deep” elements are nothing revolutionary i hateeeee to break it to y’all. Nothing in here to be impressed by unfortunately.

Free me from the shackles of having to read a book written by a man about a stoic/indifferent guy surrounded by overly eccentric/lively female character(s) who for some reason are absolutely obsessed with him bonus points if it’s supposedly has a ‘deep’/‘mundane’ plot that is in reality empty, ok minus at best and offers nothing new or special to the world or society

To sum it all up as you probably figured by now this is just terribly badly written porn. A very lousy cringy one. And it goes on for 300 pages. This man had like 28 orgasms in this book and alllll the women in this book? Generously maybeee like a half. All of them *combined*.

I would also like an unedited footage of the editor or anyone in the publishing house reading this manuscript and i would like to hear in depth justifications for the decision of publishing this pile of a loser’s self indulgence so called fiction.

It needs to be studied how someone managed to advertise these very lousy descriptions of some deranged deeply disturbed incel’s sexual fantasies as something that some people by some reason call a book. The women he writes are nothing but a manifestation of his delusions and weird fetishes, and if there’s one thing that I, believe me, do NOT want to read about is this shit.

I don’t know what this author went through in his life in order to write this atrocity and maybe this is the wrong first Murakami book to pick up (you’ll never see me picking another one) but yet here we are. Maybe it’s partially on me for going into books blindly and I don’t know what I expected but it was certainly not even close to whatever the hell this is. I trusted society’s criticism (probably for the last time) and got *no* plot other than disturbing male fantasy sex that makes you want to never hear about sex again and end it all. Betrayed and appalled.

If you have any doubts or just want to further see what I mean, while i did share some quotes while reading, I would like to share some other chosen ones (chronological) to help me demonstrate the experience (I only decided to do this from around page 190, so you’re saved from the horrors of most of the book. Even so, you’re welcome to see and judge for yourself):

-‘“I love porn films. Take me to one next time, OK?” “Fine,“ I said. “Really? I can hardly wait. Let's go to a real S&M one, with whips and, like, they make the girl pee in front of everyone. That's my favourite.”’ What a dialogue. Realistic. Meaningful.

-‘I thought about her naked, wearing only her hairslide. I thought about the curve of her waist and the dark shadow of her pubic hair.’ Life changing pondering for sure

-‘“You just don't understand a man's sexual needs,” said Nagasawa to Hatsumi. “For example, I've been with you for three years, and I've slept with plenty of women in that time. I don't remember a thing about them. Meet 'em, do it, so long. What's wrong with that?”’ The only thing that separates him from males today is an access to having a podcast

‎-‘“And anyway, don't you think her nipples are too dark for a schoolgirl - a virgin?” “Absolutely.”’ At loss for words. Where to even begin?

‎-‘“If I go to bed with a girl, I'm going to want to do it with her, and the last thing I want is to lie there struggling to restrain myself. I'm not kidding, I might end up forcing you.” “You mean you'd hit me and tie me up and rape me from behind?” “Hey, look, I'm serious.”’ It keeps getting better isn’t it?

-‘“I got all naked in front of my father's picture. Took off every stitch of clothing and let him have a good, long look. Kind of in a yoga position. Like, ”Here, Daddy, these are my tits, and this is my cunt'.”’ Yes, this is a PUBLISHED book.

-‘She slid down and kissed my penis, then enveloped it in her warm mouth and ran her tongue all over it, her long, straight hair swaying over my belly and groin with each movement of her lips until I came a second time. I held her tight and slid my hand inside her panties, touching her still-dry vagina.’ I’m lovinggg this ‘guy gets endless orgasms girl is just conveniently incapable of receiving’ theme!!

‎-‘“mind if I have a look?” “Feel free.” Midori burrowed under the covers and groped me all over down there, stretching the skin of my penis, weighing my testicles in the palm of her hand. Then she poked her head out and sighed. “I love it!” she said. “No flattery intended! I really love it!” “Thank you,” I said with simple gratitude.’ A different girl. Nothing to add. Everything’s on theme.

-‘Midori inspected my semen. ”Wow, that's a huge amount!” “Too much?” “Nah, it's OK, silly. Come all you want,” she said with a smile. “Eat a lot and make lots of semen, then I'll be nice and help you get rid of it.”’ I WISH I was making this up, *believe me*, I wish.

‎-‘Without warning, I came. It was an intense, unstoppable ejaculation. I clutched at her as my semen pulsed into her warmth again and again. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I couldn't stop myself.” “Don't be silly,” Reiko said. “You don't have to worry about that. You don't have to think about it with me. Just let yourself go as much as you like. Did it feel good?” “That's why I couldn't control myself.” “This is fine. It was great for me, too.”’ Yup, a different woman. Revolutionary writing, what a groundbreaking, profound scene.

-
pre review

IM FREEEEE one day you’ll get a fully elaborated detailed review of this piece of garbage but today is not the day. i need to cleanse myself after this horror. see y’all when i’ll at least partly heal from this atrocity.

i wrote tons of ‘thoughts’ during and this will probably be my longest and angriest review possibly ever because i don’t think i’ll ever let myself be so excruciated or endure such an appalling book. sorry for the profanity in advance.

My complete review of Norwegian Wood is published at Before We Go Blog.

“I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?”

Memories fade but continually haunt Toru Watanabe, the narrator of Haruki Murakami’s acclaimed novel, Norwegian Wood. The more the memories fade, the more he feels haunted:

“Even so, my memory has grown increasingly distant, and I have already forgotten any number of things. Writing from memory like this, I often feel a pang of dread. What if I've forgotten the most important thing? ... Naoko herself knew, of course. She knew that my memories of her would fade. Which is precisely why she begged me never to forget her, to remember that she had existed. The thought fills me with an almost unbearable sorrow. Because Naoko never loved me.”

Twenty years after the events of Norwegian Wood, Toru reflects back on his first year of college in 1969. It’s basically the Summer of Love, Japanese style.

At its surface, Norwegian Wood is a straightforward coming-of-age tale and love story. It is one of the few novels by Haruki Murakami without any elements of magical realism.

Toru falls deeply in love with Naoko, a young woman who has been emotionally damaged by the suicides of two people who had been closest to her. To her credit, Naoko realizes that she needs psychological help and moves to a hippie-style sanatorium where hopefully she can heal.

Toru loves Naoko and wishes he can help her. But he must learn the hard lesson that he cannot control another person’s emotions.

Of course, Norwegian Wood has a love triangle. Naoko’s depressive mood is contrasted with the vivacious Midori, who is full of life and tries to bring out the best in Toru. Midori is the Venus to Naoko’s Saturn. But Toru cannot let go of Naoko and move on, even as he sets his own life on a course of regret and misery.

Toru is so focused on Naoko that he doesn’t pay attention to his own emotional well-being. He doesn’t recognize when he puts himself in a very unhealthy relationship, and no amount of love and longing will make it better.

Norwegian Wood is emotionally devastating, completely wrecking me every time I read it. I’m actually a little scared to pick it up because of the emotional impact it inevitably has. It always takes my rubber soul some time to bounce back after closing its back cover.

Norwegian Wood is one of my all-time favorite novels. It’s almost too good, just like the Beatles song it’s named after.

Es el primer libro de Murakami que llega a mis manos y puedo decir sin duda que seguiré leyendo a este autor. Me ha cautivado su estilo y su forma de marcar el ritmo. El carácter de toda la obra podría resumirse en un par de adjetivos: íntima y exquisita. Los personajes, las escenas y los espacios quedan perfilados al detalle con un mínimo esfuerzo. Todo es suave y lento, a pesar de la crudeza de algunas situaciones. Los ambientes adquieren un matiz tridimensional casi de casualidad a través del hilo conductor que son los pensamientos del protagonista.

Reseña completa y mi versión de la portada en http://sidumbledorefueralibrero.com/2...

In the interest of sheltering my creative secretions from the ossifying doldrums of routine, I have come up with a new format for capturing my thoughts on permutations of the written word. As a wise person once said; “For if a secretion ceases to secrete is it not then a crust?” (Please don’t ask for attribution) I’m thinking that the best way to avoid any unoriginal output is to start with some hypotheticals. A few questions, if you will. To coerce the readership’s participation.

Have you ever, after polishing the hull of a watermelon to a mirror sheen with bacon grease, attempted to luge down a hill of ass puckering verticality draped in the funerary garb of thoroughly lubed trash bags? Well, in my case, soaring through the air offered precious moments to consider the cascade of bad decisions which pilled up like sound waves on one another before the sonic boom of this, my catalytic denouement, sent the whole screeching Rube Goldberg machine slouching forward. Critical to this review, I drew comparisons to how Murakami books tend to affect me. Where the moment to moment writing, while good, doesn’t often exceed that critical threshold which sets my attentional systems agog. Until, after accruing countless tiny resonances of narrative force and cultivated atmosphere, something triggers an avalanche which buries me in sensations. This is especially true when finishing one of his books. Where I seem to grasp the Rorschach of themes and motifs in a type of flashbulb intuition. These afterimages are, for me, the reason why I adore his work so much. Even if they’re often terribly difficult to articulate, his work is crafted in such a way that almost anyone can derive something of deep personal significance from it.

Have you ever, after nonchalantly agreeing that it would be best if you parted ways with your long time lover, calmly strode back to your bedroom, shut the door without fuss or fanfare - then collapsed like an apoplectic lungfish and writhed in your bed so dementedly that Linda Blair advocated, on behalf of the sheets, that you seek help? Rolling and blubbering with such torsional agony that you entombed yourself in the comforter like a giant enchilada stuffed with sorrow and drenched in the gooey cheese of regret? Sure that you’ve just been dealt a fatal blow, one that has dislodged some essential component of your élan vital and kicked it into the fires of Mount Doom? Did your dad then come into the room, attempting to reassure you that the sun would rise again? With you replying nasally:

“I must seek the waters which flow through the cave of Hypnos whose murmurings induce drowsiness.”

Your dad, inured from long exposure to your weirdness, effortlessly decodes your mournful lamentation, strokes your hair, and says:

“I know, honey. I know.” (?)

Well, this is a perfect example of how Murakami, if you ain’t a damn sight tougher than yours truly, can lay the hurting on you so bad that you’ll start craving Mexican, so prepare accordingly if restaurants are still shuttered in your area. I’d advise those who find the topic of suicide too heavy to countenance to not work up an appetite. But, unless your aversion to the darkness of life is prohibitively strong, I encourage you to put yourself through the wringer. It’s very cathartic.

And so here’s the pitch.

Norwegian Wood. Undoubtedly the most straightforward story from the seneschal of self-reflection himself, Haruki Murakami. At its heart, seeks to resolve the dichotomy of love and loss, perceived as binary states of being, diametrically opposed, into a stereoscopic view, in which the parallax produced between youthful passion and senescence lays bare a more dynamic interplay of forces that often intersect in the beautifully tragic ways that characterize the essential absurdity of our predicament as finite beings. The vehicle for these narrative explorations is a leaf in a gale named Toru Wantanabe, who experiences the kind of love that must have galvanized aching poets to capture the feeling in terms generally reserved for afflictions. An illness of absence. The nauseating assurance that, if not for this missing piece, life would make sense again. Pain would regain its edges, cease to be all encompassing, and prove amenable to localization once more. Toru is, quite literally, lovesick. Naked apes, with our penchant for threes (and nines, but this book doesn’t prove as numerically compliant when presented with non-primes), will avail ourselves of mé·nage à trois with great enthusiasm. And so, I invite you consider the themes of sex/love/death, through the mythical points of our three main characters whose angles sum to 180 degrees, which dovetails nicely with our protagonists waffling between past and future, embodied by Naoko/Midori, respectively. Toru, our bestest Bildungsroman boi, having contorted himself into a Gordian knot of past commitments cemented by mutual traumas shared with the, enigmatic, terminally depressed Naoko who seems just slightly off kilter with the shared causality of normal individuals, out-of-phase, passing through events like a furtive ghost. While, the manic pixie Midori, an emerald cocktail of libidinous libations, gives him the vapors.

For all of us, who have felt love transmuted to pain. Who have tried to stay upright in spite of our mercurial footing, only to succumb to the hammer blows of external forces. For those who are lost, dejected, confused and alone. Books can provide a source of solidarity that is unrivaled by any other medium. Allowing us to occupy characters whose travails mirror our own. Making the mechanisms of their grief explicit and the logic of their suffering open to our examinations. In turn, inviting us to approach our own tribulations with new insight. With exotic notional tools that render previously inexplicable feelings comprehensible and easier to accept. Murakami is one such master of the craft, who, if you sit down with in earnest, can change your life.

4.5
Este es el segundo libro de Murakami que leo y debo admitir que fue mucho más sensual de lo que me esperaba, no contaba con el erotismo que me iba a encontrar, y contrario a todos, a excepción de una escena, me gustó mucho como eran descritas, tenían sentido, pasión y sentimiento. Es muy sensual sin ser sexual, muy íntimo

El estilo de escribir de Murakami es como soñar despierta, es empezar a darte cuenta de los pequeños placeres de la vida, es escuchar música, tomar un trago, disfrutar de la soledad, abrazar a alguien, disfrutar un libro, beber algo caliente, todo esto junto y más, pero sin salir de sus páginas

¿Será que ya estoy acostumbrado a leer libros un poco más deprimentes que terminé con una sensación de calidez en vez de tristeza?

Todos dicen que no es lo mejor de este autor, ni a él mismo le parece así, pero lo he disfrutado muchísimo y siento que es un libro con el que me quedaré mucho tiempo.

Honestamente: masterpiece. ¿Por qué? Porque me generó tantos sentimientos encontrados y contradictorios que me hizo replantearme mis propias ideas. And that’s what i love about books.

Pd: voy a tener que googlear una explicación de la última media página del libro pq no la entendí

I don't know how he does it, but once again Murakami had me totally enthralled with a story I doubt many authors could have interested me in.

It's about a young man named Watanabe and his relationships with several women, both sexual and platonic. It's a "finding oneself and one's place in the world" story.

Norwegian Wood is beautifully written, achingly so. It is atmospheric, heart-breaking, and lyrical, but without the magical realism I've come to expect in Murakami's novels. There is magic though. It is in the words and the way Murakami unraveled the story, taking the reader to the depths of despair and back into a world of hope.

I doubt it's a story that will appeal to everyone. It seems people either love or hate Haruki Murakami. For those who love him, this book will not disappoint.

الموت موجود لا بوصفه نقيضا للحياة بل بوصفه جزءا منها



رغم انك تستطيع أن تتنبأ بكل أحداث الرواية و رغم أنها أحداث عادية جدا و لا يتوافر فيها عنصرا السريالية و الإبهار الذين تميز بهما موراكامى إلا أنك لا تكف أبدا عن القراءة و تتمنى ألا يقاطعك أيا كان و يخرجك من مودك



كأنك تبحر في نهر النيل في أجواء ربيعية فلا أمواج و لا مفاجآت و لا تقلبات بحرية بعكس كافكا على الشاطئ التي لم نرى فيها شواطئ أبدا



الشىء الظريف أننى خارج من قراءة تشيكوف لقراءة موراكامى و لذلك فقدت الإحساس بالأسماء لغرابتها و صعوبة نطقها فلم أعد أحفظ أي اسم أو حتى أركز فيه و أصبحت أتعرف على الأشخاص بما يشبه طريقة برايل ... فهذا هو بطل القصة و هذا صديقة المقرب و تلك جارته و هذه صديقتها و هذا ابن عمه .... و هكذا



الإستثناء هنا كان واتانابى الذى كان يحمل على كتفيه الجبال منذ البداية إلى النهاية
البطل أربعينى يتذكر أحداث واكبت عامه العشرين ... بيفكرنى بواحد صاحبنا :)



قد يحسده البعض لأنه عالق بين عدة فتيات و حتى الصديق الوحيد الذكر كان مبدأه اليوم خمر و نساء و غدا نفعل ما نشاء

الرواية أصلا ليست لأصحاب القلوب الضعيفة و لا الدمعة القريبة فالأحداث عبارة عن سلسلة من الأحزان و الأزمات المتتابعة التي يتعامل معها واتنابى و كأنه يشرب الماء



فور إنهاء الرواية قررت أن أشاهد الفيلم و لكنه لم يضف أي شيء إلا بعض المناظر الطبيعية و اختزال الأحداث بصورة كبيرة

المفاجأة في النهاية هي أن العدم هنا هو عين الوجود فلا فرق بين من مات و من عاش على ذكراه مما يجعل الأمور تختلط علينا و نتسائل في أي مكان نحن الأن.

5/5
Dudando entre 4,75 y 5, me decanto por una valoración de 5 estrellas, aunque me estoy pensando en empezar a valorar en una escala de 10 puntos.
De casi nada, Murakami construye una preciosa historia sobre pasajes de la adolescencia del personaje, que merecen reseña más amplia, con la muerte como telón de fondo.
Sin duda, totalmente recomendable!!

Murakami divides his novel into two. There is the past and death. Then there is future and life. What road do you take?

Seems like an easy question to answer. But what happens when you are in love with the past? And what happens when you so desperately want to save that past from such a death? Life becomes complicated and the prospect of the future feels like a brutal betrayal of one who is desperately clinging to you. You are her anchor; her only connection with reality. And you love her. How can you ever walk away? Life is fickle, though true love isn’t. Sometimes we have to do the hard thing and let go even if it kills us.

n  "The dead will always be dead, but we have to go on living."n

Such words are easier said than put into practice. Sometimes the dead carry so much of ourselves that living without them is not quite living anymore. Toru lost his best friend when he was seventeen. He killed himself. We never find out why, but I have my own ideas about what and who caused it. He carries on, feeling empty. He falls in love with his dead friend’s girlfriend Naoko but she has her own problems. They maintain a friendship for a year, and then she institutionalises herself because she simply cannot cope with life in the wake of her old boyfriend’s death. He was her soulmate and now she is rudderless in a sea of uncertainty.

Anyone who has read a Murakami will know the importance of music in his storytelling. These lyrics say more than I ever could about the novel. Read them, hear them and feel them.

Cue the music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eeQks...

Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown) by the Beatles.

I once had a girl
Or should I say
She once had me

She showed me her room
Isn't it good
Norwegian wood

She asked me to stay
And she told me to sit anywhere
So I looked around
And I noticed there wasn't a chair

I sat on a rug
Biding my time
Drinking her wine

We talked until two
And then she said
"It's time for bed"

She told me she worked in the morning
And started to laugh
I told her I didn't
And crawled off to sleep in the bath

And when I awoke
I was alone
This bird had flown

So I lit a fire
Isn't it good
Norwegian wood

I want to interpret them and put them in the context of the novel and explain what they mean, but to do so would be to ruin it all for you. If you have read the book read through the lyrics and ponder the actions Naoko takes towards the end of the story, what she does and why she does it seemed a little selfish to me at first. But the lyrics tell the truth. Perspective is everything and we never had the perspective in the novel that would have spoken the truth.

Norwegian Wood is a novel that feels like it should never have ended. It is the sort of book that carries you away into the lives of the characters and should carry on as long as they continue to live. With suicide such a strong theme through the novel, no less than three major characters commit it, I was surprised the ending was not more of a universal ending so to speak. The power of the writing resides in his ability to tangle you up within the story. Murakami’s characters here feel so terribly, tragically, real. They are some of the most human I’ve ever encountered on a page.

It all felt so desperately unresolved towards the end of the story. But isn’t that life? How often do we truly resolve our daemons and feel satisfied with how things went? Rarely. Norwegian Wood is a dangerous novel because it has a certain sense of universal appeal; it has the ability to speak to may a reader as they compare their own situation to that depicted here. Sure, it’s likely less dramatic but the need to move on being weighed against a past that hangs over us, whatever that past may be, is a dilemma most of us will face.

But the real question is did I enjoy it and would I recommend it?

I would recommend it, but I certainly didn’t love it. There’s little to love here, but there is also little to hate. What Murakami delivers is a sprawling peak into the lives of a bunch of severely damaged youths coping with the realities of what emptiness means. Take from it what you will. A warning though, it may hurt.

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