I love to read quite a number of Murakami's works, Norwegian Woods, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki, The wind up bird chronicles, Hard boiled Wonderland and the end of the world, to name a few. While it's not difficult to figure out his unique style of narratives, most of the time I could never fully understand his writings, but I enjoy reading them nonetheless. Talking cats, queers, desires, loneliness, other worlds, lost feelings, seemingly disjoint timelines in the books. Reading his works makes me want to be in that strange world he have imagined, I wish I were the characters, I feel a strong tie (tho fictional) with the feelings and lives he has portrayed.
A seemingly monotonous life, a fixed bar/restaurant to frequent, unconventional conversations with strangers, rawness of human desires, everything plays out evenly in his stories. I have always loved queer things, not psychotic but just.. different liking. Perhaps it was a conscious choice to become weird even I don't know. And I think to myself I'm probably not the only one. Or rather I hope I am not alone, or else that would then be weird. It may not have mattered if I'm just weird and nobody knows about it. But much as we stress on being who we really are, we would behave a whole lot different if we really give no shit about what people think of us at all. Which we couldn't, at least I can't.
I wonder if we eventually just want to be understood and yet still accepted by others, which may only exist in a utopia world.
A seemingly monotonous life, a fixed bar/restaurant to frequent, unconventional conversations with strangers, rawness of human desires, everything plays out evenly in his stories. I have always loved queer things, not psychotic but just.. different liking. Perhaps it was a conscious choice to become weird even I don't know. And I think to myself I'm probably not the only one. Or rather I hope I am not alone, or else that would then be weird. It may not have mattered if I'm just weird and nobody knows about it. But much as we stress on being who we really are, we would behave a whole lot different if we really give no shit about what people think of us at all. Which we couldn't, at least I can't.
I wonder if we eventually just want to be understood and yet still accepted by others, which may only exist in a utopia world.
Is it possible, in the final analysis, for one human being to achieve perfect understanding of another? We can invest enormous time and energy in serious efforts to know another person, but in the end, how close can we come to that person’s essence? We convince ourselves that we know the other person well, but do we really know anything important about anyone?
-The wind up bird chronicles
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