An adventure into the heart of the weird: Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, by Haruki Murakami
Weird.
This is the first word that comes to mind when I think of this book. It was not only the term that hovered in my head but also the sensation that flooded my body during the reading of this novel. There’s something of a misshapen mirror in it. The narrative wants us to believe that the reality in which the characters move is the same as ours and, at the same time, does not let us set foot in such conviction.
The weird, either way, has nothing to do with the narrative elements used by Murakami or any other specific writing resource. Those who are accustomed to the author’s writing will discover that it differs little from its “normal” parameters concerning other works. The weirdness is in the situations, in the characters, in their reactions, in their behaviors, in the environments, in the landscapes, in the words, in the silences; everything seems to clash and, at the same time, to fit perfectly in those worlds so distant but equally close that Murakami builds along six hundred pages.
Originally published in 1985 (and translated into Spanish by Lourdes Porta and published by Tusquets Editores in 2009), this novel is the fourth work by the Japanese author. Preceded by A Wild Sheep Chase (1982) and followed by, perhaps his most famous and recognized work, Norwegian Wood (1987), it is still a work, in my opinion, fundamental to his abundant production.
This novel is defined by the use of a resource, then new in its production: divide the action into two different planes. In this case, the chapters will take place in two different locations: “the end of the world”, a world endowed with fantastic dyes, and “the hard-boiled wonderland”, a fictional and somewhat futuristic version of Tokyo.
I began this review by highlighting the weirdness of this work, and such a feature can be evidenced only by looking at the index.
[My reading experience and on which I based my review was with a copy of the Maxi collection of Tusquets Editores, whose cover illustrates this text].
Interspersed, the titles of the chapters evidence two patterns: those that belong to the “hard-boiled wonderland” have concrete terms, separated by points, which give us an idea of what will happen or of topics that will be touched on in that part (5. Calculations. Evolution. Sexual desire, 23. Holes. Leeches. Tower), on the other hand, those who place the action at the “end of the world” allude to places or issues more poetic than those of their counterparts (18. Dreamreading, 32. The Shadow in the Throes of Death).
In this work everything is articulated in this way: everything is contrast and strangeness. The stories, which in principle seem to be completely unrelated, not only reflect on one hand (wonderland) something closer to science fiction and on the other (end of the world) writing more linked to fantasy, but each conveys something completely different from the other. In that futuristic Tokyo, everything is colder, harder, grayer, or faded, even if at times the colors make their way through. Everything is scientific, mathematical, and calculating, it is of straight shapes and pointed vertices. Instead, inside the walled city a profound solemnity can be detected, the colors of the beasts contrast with the green of the forests or with the whiteness of the snow, we feel the dark hardness of the wall and the meekness with which the river that crosses the city runs. The sun gives sunrises and sunsets that can be seen between the letters. The curves of the wall, the heights and depressions of the terrain, and the mystery and dangers of the forests. Shapes are more volatile, colors are more present. Such is the fantastic approach that Murakami includes a map to guide us within that world, something atypical in his work but very characteristic of the genre.
The weird remains constantly present in the stories that, interspersed, make up this novel. And, during the reading, the questions do not cease to arise: What are the beasts? What is the walled city? Where is it? What is shuffling? What are the INKlings? Why do characters behave in such strange ways? What happens to the shadows? What is dreamreading? What are the Semiotecs? What is the System? What is the Factory? The world seems to behave quite abnormally. Why? Everything produces a feeling of strangeness that turns uncomfortable. And it is not until a few chapters near the end of the novel that everything seems to make a little sense, at least within the rules imposed by Murakami for these worlds.
The novel, without a doubt, has a depth and a symbolic charge that could be material for infinite and extensive analysis. It is not my intention, however, to delve into such extensive questions on this occasion, but to make a simplified sketch of my reading experience.
In the beginning, the chapters seem to have no relation whatsoever, and it is not until about a hundred pages into the book that the first clear reference appears that, somehow, these two disparate realities have something in common.
With this in mind, I found it difficult to connect at first with this novel. The chapters I enjoyed most were those belonging to the “end of the world,” and, to my regret, were the shortest. I was not attracted by the story of the “hard-boiled wonderland”, but, reaching the middle of the book, that narrative, closer to science fiction, becomes an adventure into the heart of the strange full of dangers and eventualities that I would never have imagined would happen, even more having as a prelude that beginning so strange that it disorients. Then, yes, suddenly, the action below the futuristic Tokyo became of far more interest to me than that within the walled city. About the end, and past the peak of the novel, in my opinion, is where the why of the two realities finally finds its answer. Again, I felt the same lack of traction as at the beginning; and the final moments, despite having satisfying sequences and great passages, became somewhat difficult.
Since I started reading the novel, I felt the difference between the parts, and I couldn’t help but think of the parallelism with what is usually raised about the hemispheres of the brain. Normally, the left hemisphere is related to the most analytical part of the human being, and the right with its most creative part. It is not unusual to find images or representations where the left hemisphere is a grey and dull mass and the right is a burst of colors, and this was the exact impression that the parts of the novel gave me. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Murakami intended to reflect something exactly like this. And, if more were needed, not a few similarities can be found by comparing the map of the end of the world with a sagittal cut image of the human brain. Everything is a delicate sum of coincidences that lead to the background of the story, although casual I am sure they have little.
The narration has Murakami’s trademark throughout the pages. There is no shortage of ramblings about jazz, music in general, baseball, and other topics on which the author loves to spread, and that, at times, nothing seems to have to do with the focus of the issue. But was precisely in those passages that I came to wonder why I was reading that mountain of information, at first sight useless, where suddenly and subtly appear the crumbs of information that redefine the puzzle that history builds masterfully. Brush strokes of genius. If there’s one thing I’ve always enjoyed, and possibly what captivated me about Murakami from the start, it’s his ability to give just the right thing at the right time. It is the treasure, the pearl, that we seek within its vast sea of words.
In this case, that information, those bridges that are stretched between one reality and the other, at times, can go unnoticed by a speedy reading. They are small, perhaps scarce, and scattered, but each is carefully and meticulously positioned to strike a blow just where and when Murakami wishes.
Setting aside these narrative pearls and the enormous number of fragments worthy of mention, I want to highlight three scenes that were engraved in my mind. First, nothing more than a matter of the order of appearance, within the strange chapter 13, the scene that takes place in the protagonist’s apartment with those other two characters (Junior and Big Boy). It is a scene where nothing makes sense, where everything that happens seems to have no foundation; the reactions of the characters seem disjointed, their behaviors are as sympathetic as they are violent, the outcome is brutal, and the protagonist accepts everything with a normality that escapes comprehension. Weirdness at its finest.
Second, one of the narrative sections that have taken me most by surprise, not only in Murakami’s work but in everything I have read. In chapter 21, when we are already immersed in the most adventurous part of the novel, passing through those incomprehensible depths of the INKling’s lair, the protagonist falls into a lethargy to which the author introduces us with the greatest of masters, so much that it is strange and incomprehensible what happens until, suddenly, the companion, the Chubby Girl, brings him back to reality. It’s a big scene, where reality is giving way to the dreamlike just the way Murakami knows how to do it. I prefer not to go into detail or describe it much more so that those who feel compelled to approach this novel can enjoy it entirely.
And finally, the farewell between the protagonist and the librarian in the park. He already knows his destiny. The girl is in complete ignorance of everything. One, as a reader, knows everything that is happening in one and the other reality but not yet what the outcome will be. It’s a casual farewell, but bitter and sad at the same time. A farewell with a promise that we know very possibly will not be fulfilled. And, again, the protagonist, surrendering to his destiny, observing how life and the everyday run its course around him, accepts everything with a renewed vision of the world and himself, but too late to do anything about it.
This novel, being for the moment my last entry in the work of the Japanese author, comes to me after having read seven of his novels, four short stories books, and two essays. I do not consider it to be among my favorites, nor that it is a good starting point for those who want to start reading this author. However, I do consider it a fundamental work for those who are already attracted by its narrative.
On a personal note, the recourse to separate realities was nothing new to me as, by pure chance, I read After Dark long before this novel. There, yes, the resource took me by surprise and I found it a tremendously useful tool to carry forward the mystery of the narratives.
I have little more to say about this novel without falling into deeper analysis or possible spoilers about the story. With all that said, the balance of the reading was positive and I liked it enough to, surely, in the future, give it the rereading it deserves and return to that weird, weird world.
