I have just finished 1Q84, while the aftertaste is still fresh and my head is still more or less clear, so I want to write something down before the moon is no longer hanging there.
I like buying books, and I like reading books. Over the years, though, buying books has taught me one thing: buying and reading are not necessarily related.
A book, once bought, may never be read. It may simply sit there gathering dust. To put it in a more solemn way, its social status changes: first from commodity to offering, and then, after enough time has passed, to collectible.
It usually begins with my noticing a book. The book is not especially useful; it has that unmistakable chicken-rib quality: tasteless if eaten, a pity to throw away. Then I begin persuading myself with excuses. “I’ll read it as soon as it arrives.” “A famous writer recommended this.” “Look how beautiful the cover is.” “If I don’t buy it now, I’ll never get it again—it’s limited edition!”
If an online store happens to be running a sale, the urge becomes even harder to resist. Discounts like “50 off every 100” or “150 off every 300” look so tempting that they almost count as a moral argument. At that point, it is no longer enough for me to buy books myself; I start trying to drag other people into it. After all, I am capable of saying things as shameless as: “Reading Day is coming—are you planning to cooperate with the e-commerce promotions and buy a few more books to encourage yourself to finish the ones you already stockpiled?”
After fifteen minutes of inner struggle, I place the order. Then I wait for the delivery. The books arrive. I tear off the protective plastic—maybe I do, maybe I do not. I flip through a few pages and put the book on the shelf.
The shelf is already full of books, a vast sea of them. The new book disappears into the old pile. Every few days I dust the shelf. When I feel like reading, I pull out one or two books from it. The book I read is not necessarily the one I just bought, because there are still unread “new books” bought before this new book.
Old books and new books keep shifting between oldness and newness. Really, these are Schrödinger’s books. A book can be new, and it can be old. It can be read, and it can remain unread. Only the money was mine, and that was spent in a completely real and undeniable way. It became books, and then it became Schrödinger’s books. In the end, it no longer feels like my property at all.
No. I cannot let Schrödinger take my books away from me. So I make up my mind to start reading.
I have never quite understood what Haruki Murakami is writing about.
Is he writing about romantic love, or family affection? Is he writing about sex, or is sex his way of getting at the core of human nature? I do not understand any of it. I cannot figure out why he writes about sex, or what role sex is supposed to play in the text. Does sexual description make the characters fuller? Or are adults simply unable to exist without sex?
As an ordinary university student with no sex life, I cannot answer. If this appeared in a reading comprehension exam, I would certainly get zero. These questions have been with me since the first time I read Murakami.
The first book of his I read was Norwegian Wood, and I liked it very much. I liked the story. I liked Lin Shaohua’s translation. I liked the sex writing. I am not sure whether what I liked was Lin Shaohua or Murakami. In any case, I was most drawn to the love talk. For example:
“You like my hairstyle?”
“I like it terribly.”
“How terribly?”
“So terribly that all the trees in all the forests in the world would fall flat on the ground.”
And this:
“I like you best of all, Midori.”
“How much?”
“Like a spring bear.”
“A spring bear?” Midori lifted her face again. “What spring bear?”
“You’re walking alone through a field in spring, and a cute little bear comes toward you. Its fur is like velvet, and its eyes are round. It says to you, ‘Hello, miss. Would you like to roll around with me?’ Then you hug the bear and roll down a clover-covered hillside together, rumbling and tumbling for a whole day. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
“It would be wonderful.”
“That’s how much I like you.”
And also:
“How much do you like me?”
“Enough that all the tigers in all the forests of the world melt into butter.”
I cannot say things like that. Even now, I still cannot. I regret not listening to a classmate in primary school who told me to read the book. In sixth grade, someone said Norwegian Wood was good, and I thought it was just a song.
Speaking of songs, Murakami’s novels often mention what music the protagonist is listening to, what music he plans to listen to, and what music he likes. Jazz, blues, classical music. Are these Murakami’s own preferences? Or does the kind of music a person listens to reveal what kind of person they are? I will skip this. I am really not good at this area.
After Norwegian Wood, I fell in love with Murakami. Around that time, Killing Commendatore was released, and it became the second Murakami novel I read. This one was even more obscure and difficult to grasp. What does the faceless man signify? What about the old man in the white Subaru whom “I” meets after separating from his wife? And then there is the new concept that appears in the book: intercourse across a distance. That is the name I privately gave it, anyway.
It was the first time I had seen such a thing written that way. When I had just finished Killing Commendatore, I even thought the wife had cheated. It was not until I finished 1Q84 that I realized this kind of intercourse had not appeared only in Killing Commendatore.
So what is this method of writing meant to show? Is it saying that in this strange and dazzling world, nothing is impossible? I do not know. If someone has truly seen through it, I would like them to tell me.
I no longer remember who said it—roughly, if a gun is mentioned hanging on the wall at some point, then that gun will definitely appear later. My understanding is that things appear for a reason. Or, to put it another way, there should be a beginning and an end.
So did 1Q84 fall apart at the end? I do not think so.
The Little People, who play such a central role, do not receive a clear ending. Fuka-Eri returns to the mountains and then disappears from the story. Tengo’s married girlfriend is nowhere to be found. It remains unclear what the people of Sakigake intend to do with Aomame. The NHK fee collector who appears outside Aomame’s and Ushikawa’s doors—who exactly is he? There are many such unresolved things.
But perhaps none of them really matters.
What matters is that Aomame and Tengo leave the year 1Q84. They return safely from the Town of Cats to the real world. At that moment, how many moons are in the sky? Aomame and Tengo see one moon. But could someone else be seeing two?
Compared with books abroad, books in China really are very cheap. So I buy as many as I can within my means.
A small digression: some lesser-known Japanese novels published by Nanhai Publishing Company should be bought if you like them, because they can go out of print very easily. For example, The Night Is Short, Walk On Girl cost less than twenty yuan when it was published in 2010. Now it is out of print, and you can no longer buy a legitimate simplified Chinese edition unless some publisher reprints it. The same goes for certain manga and light novels. If you like them, please buy them while you can.
In the end, buying books and reading books are both part of my way of living. They bring me pleasure.
Unfortunately, my situation lately is not very optimistic.
I am out of money.