"When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about."
My dear beloved Murakami has struck me with his genius once again, with Aomame and Ushikawa still living in my mind (1Q84), now Nakata and Kafka are going to join the party and stir up the pot of soup I think sometimes my mind becomes. The characters are always so rich in character and personality, filled with purpose and striving forward, but at the same time manage to sustain the mystery of what is going on and anyone who tells you that they knew what was going on is probably lying to you. He took me on yet another mind-bending trip down my own metaphysical existence. I enjoy being tortured purely based on the fact that I exist, that sounds twisted but it is the big fat truth, and I believe people generally do.
With Murakami's classic style, the story unfolds in alternating chapters with our two converging heroes. The fifteen-year-old boy runaway named Kafka Tamura with his alter ego called Crow, and the mentally defective but other-worldly Satoru Nakata intertwine in a schematic fashion, both stories relate to one another but never in an obvious way. Kafka packed his backpack, getting ready to leave his affluent, motherless home and his world-renowned father while talking to the exhorting Crow, gets on the bus and leaves Tokyo forever. Nakata does not wake up from an abnormal event in 1944; when he does, he loses his memory and ability to read. However, he learned to make handcrafted furniture and when the factory disbanded he was left with his government 'sub-cities' alongside a rare ability to talk to cats which he gained which helped him find lost cats. One cat search led Nakata to Johnnie Walker's house where he was compelled to stab him, fleeing the bloody scene, Nakata hitches a ride from Tokyo to Shikoku. As it happens, Kafka has also run to Shikoku and is working in a library there. I don't want to spoil too much of the story so I don't want to go into details.
The world is created as the story progresses, many metaphors later, and still no polarities, no central authority. The carnival that is Kafka on the Shore seems only present in our minds. The showers of sardines, mackerel and leeches, and the stone which opens up to what I can only imagine is the world of the souls, many twists and bends later, nothing is resolved, nothing is answered and everything is at a loose end. It only leaves me more satisfied with my imagination rather than any other ending I could have possibly wished for.
To me, what makes a good piece of literature is one that makes you think and remember pieces of your past, and contemplate your fate ahead. Adults tell children all the time, at least when I was little, that we will understand bigger problems later on in life when we are adults. As I crossed from being a teenager and an adult a while ago now, my tutors started to confirm the suspicion I have had forever, even when we are older than our parents right now, or grandparents, we still won't be able to figure out reasons for past occurrences, or what lays ahead, but all we know is to keep going. I was looking back at my childhood, and a lot of memories floated their way to the top. This was when I had just finished this book. In retrospect to the present, everything in the past feels like a dream, just like the book. I have given up rational analysis recently, instead, I felt the book, I felt the endless summer it appeared to be, and I felt the coming autumn that draws near every day but never seems to reach. I know the leaves will age, and the rain storms will catch up with time but all I have is one question, what is the point of struggling? The repeating themes of melancholy only expose our nature to strive towards happiness and the inescapable loss and alienation we have to get past. Murakami gave us a timely reminder: "Happiness is an allegory, and unhappiness is a story." I have learned to forge on the path I have been given and I know I will be fine, I will forgive whatever is tripping me up, and I will learn to understand and learn to love it, even though I still don't know what the hell love is, but I know I will have the summer forever and eternally in my heart.
If someone asked me how I have understood the book to be, I would recommend them to read and experience it by themselves as it really isn't something one could explain with words. This being said, now, over a month of tasting the lingering tang, a few ideas are starting to appear more present in my mind. In our present world, mystery seems to be a luxury item which only the few still have the privilege to enjoy. Men are prone to ask why and try to discover reason in life, the same thirst is what drives us to discoveries and to new ideas, but answers are so easily reached now, the art of uncovering the hidden layers has been lost, whilst everyone feeds off the internet, I am here with Kafka and Oshima. Like every Murakami novel, the male protagonist is always the goofy goober that gets blowjobs from younger girls, but more importantly, the absolutely fantastic stories are always packed with philosophical references. From the title which promises to be Kafkaesque (literally), to Oshima directly reminding us of Plato's Symposium and our journey to be reunited with our other half whilst being, again, Oshima kind of acts as the literal embodiment of what the original form of the soul is thought to be like -- exemplifying self-possesment and true knowledge. Moving onto the Kafkaesque quality, it becomes a weird mixture, the main character is fated to kill his father and have sex with who he thinks to be his mother, the ultimate oedipus obsession, so deeply rooted in Kafka that it becomes destiny. However, Franz Kafka is not just a representation of absurd characters with an unavoidable (grotesque at times) end. The fractured stories and endless search for the soul are present, only vividly present in Murakami's novels and it often makes me wonder, is there a point to all the hand-jobs, wet mouths and vaginas? Most of the point there isn't a point to the sex which happens all so suddenly and quickly, the Oedipal dreams are all so amazingly detailed and just why?
You might have come to seek out why or what is Kafka On The Shore, but all I can say is, one has to go on this journey on one's own path. I really liked this book, not the best Murakami in my opinion but certainly up there with the others. Looking forward to the next one I pick up. Probably Hard-Boiled Wonderland and The End Of The World.