I’ve finished Murakami’s latest novel, IQ84, after a few weeks of reading off and on followed by a spurt of speed-reading. To preface: Murakami is one of my favorite authors, and Sputnik Sweetheart is in my top five favorite books, ever. And I read quite a lot of novels, to put it lightly. But 1Q84 really didn’t do it for me.
It’s possible that it was the translation - but I don’t think so. Murakami almost dips into ‘parody of himself’ territory with this one, even though it’s as page-turning as ever. He has a habit of intertextual allusion and subtlety, but I felt as though its usage in 1Q84 was a bit trite. Ultimately, what holds vague writing together is a suggestion of collective emotional sentiment lying underneath an incomprehensible world. In that respect, Orwell’s original 1984 is far superior.
What I love about Murakami is his simplicity: he can take a small idea and let it remain small even though the world around it is expanding. Add a touch of the surreal, and you get something very beautiful. Perhaps simplicity isn’t the right word - it’s more of a transparent complexity. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of “show, don’t tell” here, even with his tried and true themes of nostalgia, loneliness, and words as isolation.
At first I wondered - was it me who changed, or Murakami? Surely his appeal couldn’t be based on whatever 1Q84’s foundations appear to be made out of. But I think I understand now: the Murakami books I love show how our emotions can physically manifest themselves in otherworldly ways, and how the pain that arises from this recognition is nearly a universal trait. To do that, you don’t have to be the ‘master of your craft’ in the way of Margaret Atwood or Nabokov. The truth is, Murakami isn’t as ‘good’ of a writer, technically, as they are. It’s ironic that much of 1Q84 revolves around how a fascinating idea can be tweaked from its skeleton to a rich, literary work. I’m not sure what collective emotional chord he’s trying to strike here, but everything feels a bit fake, and not in an intriguing way. Shame, really.
