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, by Haruki Murakami Philip Gabriel
Download PDF , by Haruki Murakami Philip Gabriel
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Product details
File Size: 2795 KB
Print Length: 705 pages
Publisher: Knopf (October 9, 2018)
Publication Date: October 9, 2018
Language: English
ASIN: B079WM2HMV
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Amazon Best Sellers Rank:
#13,394 Paid in Kindle Store (See Top 100 Paid in Kindle Store)
Murakami was like the secret center of a candy, the sweet and salty spot. Reading him was like entering another dimension, with the juxtaposition of hypnagogic images, surreal and hallucinatory dreamscapes. Murakami never disappointed me before, with his allegorical symbols such as an empty well or an underground city, and bewildering plots but with accessible characters caught in individual or collective traumas. Many of his novels were postmodern, but even in his realistic fiction, such as NORWEGIAN WOOD, you got a sense of the “other,†due to his dark, searching, and waiting atmosphere and tone. And humor—there was always a piping of humor with the dramatic. Reading him felt like watching a cat with fugitive wings. So why did this one take such a hard nosedive?Did Murakami usually have an editor to keep him in check, to clean it up? It almost seems as if, since the author has arrived, over and over again, that he wanted other hands off his text, or perhaps he was experimenting. But who would experiment with cumbersome prose and bland details? The voice sounded juvenile at times and the plot was buckling under its own lack of subtlety. And, instead of trusting the reader to read between the lines and pick up on suggestion, he habitually jabs us with over-explication and declarations. By the time I was 25% through the novel, I wanted to heave it across the room. It was sagging under its own weight.As an example, the narrator, a portrait painter, talks about why he was attracted to his wife, a secret he never revealed to her. He goes on to say that she wasn’t outstandingly attractive, but rather resembled his dead sister, especially her eyes. There was something hackneyed, unoriginal about it. “…the fact that her eyes reminded me so much of my sister who’d died at twelve…Without those eyes, I probably never would have tried to win her over…That was the sole secret I kept from her…â€There are other details that, for me, landed with a thud. Part of it was presentation—a rather flavorless buffet of many “secrets†and anecdotal information I felt I’d heard before. The style was tedious and monotonous. I would have been engaged more if the fictional world and characters blended together more seamlessly, if the sentence structure had some flair. How narrative and description are invented is integral to reader absorption. I suppose my expectations were high, as Murakami had been known for his unique and imaginative language to build his stories. For me, KILLING COMMENATORE—and what a great title, that refers to a hidden painting—it lacked the author’s talent for atmosphere and tone, and I found it too cloying and overexposed, for lack of a better word. The painting idea had muscle, but the telling is where it atrophied for me.If I missed something, or readers heartily disagree with me, I understand. I don’t relish posting a two-star review, but Murakami is no debut writer. Someone of his stature can handle criticism –it’s the fans I am concerned with. I am a dedicated fan, also, and appreciate that not every book is a winner. There are so many earlier books that are top tier, such as THE WINDUP BIRD CHRONICLE, or KAFKA ON THE SHORE, or A WILD SHEEP CHASE, and of course HARD-BOILED WONDERLAND. Choose any of those or many others for a wild and intoxicating ride.
It is hard to believe that Murakami is almost 70. On the one hand, it feels like his presence has loomed large in the Japanese (and now world) literary scene for a very long time; on the other, there is something eternal and unchanging about Murakami’s works—one can pick up Hear the Wind Sing (written almost 40 years ago!) and instantly identify the author as the same one who penned Killing Commendatore. This is not to say that Murakami has not changed at all—he has experimented with style and perspective, and perhaps most critically, balanced cool detachment with worldly engagement as a result of the Tokyo sarin gas attacks in 1995. And yet, the many themes that appear in Killing Commendatore—subterranean adventures, strained relationships, World War II, men coping with the loss of women, music, art, mysterious creatures with strange speaking patterns, metaphysical sex—will be instantly apparent to the experienced Murakami reader. In many ways, where Killing Commendatore is a success it is precisely because Murakami returns to his roots in many ways.Of the story itself, I will not say too much; in part to avoid spoilers, and in part because trying to summarize Murakami’s works are a near-impossible exercise. Yes, the “tl;dr†of this book would be “Artist separated from wife paints portraits, encounters odd situations, gets back with wife†(don’t worry, I’m not revealing anything the reader isn’t told within the first couple of pages). I can even tell you that the book is about ideas, metaphors, and history (both shared and personal histories and experiences) ... as well as a fixation with a young girl's breasts that quickly becomes uncomfortable for the reader. But, that doesn’t tell you what the book is *about*—for that, you need to read it yourself, of course.Where does this book rank in the pantheon of Murakami works? This is, of course, a very subjective question; as someone who tends to favor Murakami’s earlier works such as Hardboiled Wonderland over later works such as Kafka and 1Q84, my opinion might not align with yours. However, for me, this was a nicely crafted tale, easily the most *complete* Murakami novel. As much as I love Murakami’s work, I have been frustrated in the past by his novels that leave too many story lines unraveled, too many questions unaddressed, and the book just ending without fanfare. This is not to say that there are no unresolved story lines in Killing Commendatore (for instance, I’m still haunted by the prologue of all things—once you finish the novel, go back and re-read the very beginning and think about the questions it raises). However, Murakami provides a surprising amount of closure in the last few chapters, and while he doesn’t provide The Answers, he does provide enough detail to at least figure out what *questions* the reader should be asking.That said, while I was spell-bound much of the time, there were sections where the book dragged (compared to a work such as Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, not that much ‘happens’—a couple hundred pages probably could’ve been chopped from this book and would not have been missed), some of the characters did not quite live up to their promise (I kept waiting for a little bit more substance where characters such as Menshiki, Mariye, and the Man with the White Subaru are concerned, but I did love Commendatore—even if it’s hard not to compare him to the Sheep Man from A Wild Sheep Chase), and while the plot was pretty well explained (for a Murakami novel), I kept waiting for a little bit more of a twist (many events were a bit predictable for an old Murakami hand), or a clearer picture of what were the consequences or importance of certain seemingly-portentous events (especially toward the end), or just something new, exciting, and surprising—as an artist, Murakami is as confident and polished in his brushstrokes as ever … but it feels like Killing Commendatore traces elegantly and masterfully over a canvas he has already worked on many times before. I admit, the more time that goes by since finishing this novel (confession: I read the original novel when it came out in 2017, so I've had a year and a half to think about it), the more my enthusiasm wanes—I worry that my initial excitement was due to relief that Murakami ‘landed the plane’ more so than enthusiasm about the flight itself. Killing Commendatore feels like a consummation of Murakami’s work to this point, but I’d love to see him break new ground and go in new directions in his next novel.
I loved everything Murakami wrote up until 1Q84. This book felt like a list of increasingly stale Murakami tropes - vaguely sexualized prepubescent girls, sitting in dark holes leading to self discovery, faceless nemeses representing thoughtless capitalism, and a quiet loner, anti-technology protagonist who randomly gets ladies and has an inscrutable wife. All sprinkled with matter of fact magical realism. When you remove all the form, this book has as much substance as the man without a face.
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