The words "It's time for you to start preparing to face death gently. If you continue to invest too much energy only in living, you won't be able to die well. Little by little, this change must be made. In a sense, living and dying are equivalent, doctor." echoed in Satsuki's mind that night as she lay in her large immaculate bed and cried. She recognized the fact that she was gently moving towards death. She recognized that there was a hard white stone inside her body. She recognized that somewhere in the darkness, a green snake covered in scales was hiding. She thought of the child who was never born. She had gotten rid of it and thrown it into a bottomless well. And she had continued to hate a man for thirty years. She had wished him to die in horrible pain. In a sense, she told herself, it was I who caused that earthquake. He had turned her heart and body into a stone. The ash-colored monkeys in that distant mountain had watched her in silence. In a sense, living and dying are equivalent, doctor.
In the first half, Murakami wanders fearfully among dreamlike derailments and unspoken words that have more the appearance of indecision about the developments to be attributed to the narrated events; in the second part, contrary to any expectation, one witnesses a dizzying rebirth.
A UFO lands in Kushiro ★★. The deeply Carverian image of immobility in front of the television is beautiful - external dramas become palpable when private life ceases in stimuli, a very bitter truth - and overall the intentions are good, but the sting is lost with a story that stands on stilts and extinguishes the little narrative tension with some notable kitsch peaks.
Landscape with Iron ★★. The attachment to life turns into a slow wait for death, escaped and above all not accepted. It's a pity that the story is embroidered on such a cryptic symbolism as to subtract drama from what would also be an interesting story.
All God's Children Dance ★1/2. An indescribable mess that clumsily tries to link the theme of sin with a subtle disturbing atmosphere; but the worst comes with the cheesy final resolution that flounders between Shinto catarsis and moments of conscience with a huge shadowy figure as a spectator (a vaguely nice idea, but really, it can't be read without wide-eyed astonishment).
Thailand ★★★★1/2. Saint Augustine of Hippo said that "living in hatred is the equivalent of drinking poison and hoping that it is the other who dies." The attachment to the previous life is the antechamber of inner death; the death of the past is the most painful and necessary choice to be reborn into another existence and accept that, sometimes, things change along with us; and perhaps regardless of us. A wonderful story that adopts the strong metaphor of the earthquake to overflow into a limbo of consciousness.
Frog Saves Tokyo ★★★★★. Living an average, silent and not very stimulating life does not downsize the small inner struggles that one has to face every day. And perhaps one is never really ready for a greater cause that looms over us and, at the same time, calls for a redemption; it's better to do what one can and see the half-failure as a half-success: there is no end to the struggle and balance is the maximum one can aspire to. The final landing is beautiful, with a surreal atmosphere to temper the bitter disillusionment behind the story.
Honey Pies ★★★★. A moving story about love as an individual necessity and friendship as a mutual necessity (where is the difference?). The distinction between the two feelings passes through courage and honesty towards oneself. A small note: I fully share Murakami's melancholy in seeing the form of the story so mistreated in the editorial market.