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I finished "1Q84" a couple of nights ago. Close to a thousand pages. And I was really enjoying it. For over nine-hundred pages, I was even thinking that I might like to book-blog it some day, if I have so many years of life left in my credit. I could understand Murakami's fame. He gives us characters and scenes that suck you in, heart and soul.
On the other hand, when I finished the last page and put the book down, I found myself sympathizing with Janet Maslin, the New York Times critic who was witheringly harsh on Murakami and his novel. Oh, to be sure, I think she goes too far. Sonny and Cher are only mentioned a few times, and I found a good 90% of the book to be more than consistently interesting. It was a fascinating world, and you always want to know what happens next.
And if someone had stolen my book when I still had fifty pages left to read, I would have thought that "1Q84" must be one of the all time great masterpieces of world literature. Okay, that may be overstating it, but I thought it was more than escapist pop-fiction, a real find. Unfortunately, no one stole my book, and when I finished the last page, I was overcome by the resentment that, after reading almost a thousand pages, I was cheated, taken for a sucker indeed. This is not "The Brothers Karamozov" of the twenty-first century.
The story ends up being the most sappy love story ever played out in the major leagues of literature. All those wild imaginings of air chrysalises and supernatural little people and two worlds and two moons, while intriguing and fascinating in their development, all seem to be pointless detours when you have reached the end. It doesn't make sense. All those well-drawn scenes do not add up. The ultimate lesson I draw is that you can have all the marvelous talents of a writer, but you can still fall short if you cannot design a good plot.
Well, I do not regret reading the book. It gave me weeks of fun reading, before letting me down. I may still try Murakami's more realist fiction, perhaps "Norwegian Wood", but it is close to the bottom of my wish list. For now, I feel like switching back and forth between Charles Bukowski and Charles Dickens, if that makes any sense. I am a strange and sad fellow. For Murakami fans out there, it may be that I am too unhip and uncool for what may be the cutting edge of fiction, as I am even older in spirit than I am in years, ancient and old school. Everyone has to find their happiness in themselves.
On the other hand, when I finished the last page and put the book down, I found myself sympathizing with Janet Maslin, the New York Times critic who was witheringly harsh on Murakami and his novel. Oh, to be sure, I think she goes too far. Sonny and Cher are only mentioned a few times, and I found a good 90% of the book to be more than consistently interesting. It was a fascinating world, and you always want to know what happens next.
And if someone had stolen my book when I still had fifty pages left to read, I would have thought that "1Q84" must be one of the all time great masterpieces of world literature. Okay, that may be overstating it, but I thought it was more than escapist pop-fiction, a real find. Unfortunately, no one stole my book, and when I finished the last page, I was overcome by the resentment that, after reading almost a thousand pages, I was cheated, taken for a sucker indeed. This is not "The Brothers Karamozov" of the twenty-first century.
The story ends up being the most sappy love story ever played out in the major leagues of literature. All those wild imaginings of air chrysalises and supernatural little people and two worlds and two moons, while intriguing and fascinating in their development, all seem to be pointless detours when you have reached the end. It doesn't make sense. All those well-drawn scenes do not add up. The ultimate lesson I draw is that you can have all the marvelous talents of a writer, but you can still fall short if you cannot design a good plot.
Well, I do not regret reading the book. It gave me weeks of fun reading, before letting me down. I may still try Murakami's more realist fiction, perhaps "Norwegian Wood", but it is close to the bottom of my wish list. For now, I feel like switching back and forth between Charles Bukowski and Charles Dickens, if that makes any sense. I am a strange and sad fellow. For Murakami fans out there, it may be that I am too unhip and uncool for what may be the cutting edge of fiction, as I am even older in spirit than I am in years, ancient and old school. Everyone has to find their happiness in themselves.
