I heeded to the call of Mr. George Moore. . . Muning got to read Murakami’s Umibe no Kafuka and her reaction was like “the pregnant cat was caught wobbling around under a ‘violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm’” Her master joined her: “indeed Muning. . .indeed!”
The rawness of the thoughts of Haruki Murakami; fresh from his subconscious tunnels delivered me somewhere in between the linen bed sheet and the protruding lumps of cotton appearing from a century-old foam bed. I was like hidden from the real world down into the recesses of an unknown world where cockroaches, their eggs, and gazillion of dust moths dance to the rhythm of the movement of lovers carousing their night away on the comfort of this love-bed and the melodious howling produced by a filth of satisfaction. On the warm night of July 25th, I was like thrown away from this world to get to know my repressed thoughts. . .of why a recurring dream during my seventh year of existence hounded me like a persistent apparition behind the enormous acacia tree at noon day; of why I’m so obsessed with slippers and the filth it produces at the end of the day after liters of perspiration stuck and blended to the smell of rubber. . .of why I took psychology in college at the peril of my lifetime’s security. (And by reading Kafka on the Shore all of this mystery was unlocked? . . .and with the effect of an opened Pandora’s box?) No. Actually, all of the mystery just remained in me. They are still there turning the confusing pattern of a mosaic into an infinite and changing and swirling and drowning mirages of color, shapes, etc. like what your kaleidoscope is doing. (I’m a bit confused!) Likewise, the world is but a metaphor. And so don’t fret.
There’s always transference in reading Murakami like no other book has hit me. And after reading Kafka, I never hesitated to peek more into Murakami’s subconscious thoughts like knowing my own. Slipped into Norwegian Wood, drowned myself in Wind-up Bird Chronicle, and soberly squeezed the life of next month’s budget to satisfy such weird addiction. . . and I am more happy, happy and satisfied.
A critic of Murakami’s prose alleged that there’s excessive profundity and name-check. . .of him joining the fanatical bandwagon of authors’ using titles that strike a note among readers. . . The Da Vinci Code, The Dante Club. . .blah, blah, blah could be the ponderings to achieve a marketing ploy. On why she finds Umibe no Kafuka “a book most certainly obscured by weeds and metaphorical ferns” is not in itself a mystery. (http://www.oxonianreview.org/issues/5-1/5-1carr.html) Almost all readers admitted they were lost. Mine was like that experienced by Satoru Nakata when he saw the silver light in the sky and fell into a deep sleep and the whole period of amnesia and fantasy after that. Murakami told in an interview that his novel is one full of riddles. But the critic insisted, if this is one of riddles. . .the answer to this riddle is a riddle and the riddle a riddle and so on. And as to why she’s persistent is quite evident in her choice of character: Hoshino. Yes, more than Kafka and Satoru and the talking cats.
On why I love this book more than anything else is because it defines heaven amidst doldrums. I can definitely say that in a degree of transference this one has traveled the long journey from the hidden part of the iceberg to the obvious and patent. And who will give his second thoughts in empathizing with Kafka’s reason. “There’s a void inside me, a blank that is slowly expanding, devouring what’s left of who I am. I can hear it happening.” We will always be prone to the subconscious pull and it would be often trampling upon logic and norm. The result would be gawkish more likely and you would be more likely to detest it unless you see, at the least, some subconscious outbursts to be normal and useful. Unless one would heed to Kafka’s resolve : “I head for the core of the labyrinth, giving myself up to the void.”
“I probably won’t.” said the pregnant cat. “I’ve been there before and my memory of it is quite murky and hostile.”
“The writer seems to hate cats and likes felicide.”
No. Actually, he’s a fan of your type that’s why you’re always a part of every story he makes.
The rawness of the thoughts of Haruki Murakami; fresh from his subconscious tunnels delivered me somewhere in between the linen bed sheet and the protruding lumps of cotton appearing from a century-old foam bed. I was like hidden from the real world down into the recesses of an unknown world where cockroaches, their eggs, and gazillion of dust moths dance to the rhythm of the movement of lovers carousing their night away on the comfort of this love-bed and the melodious howling produced by a filth of satisfaction. On the warm night of July 25th, I was like thrown away from this world to get to know my repressed thoughts. . .of why a recurring dream during my seventh year of existence hounded me like a persistent apparition behind the enormous acacia tree at noon day; of why I’m so obsessed with slippers and the filth it produces at the end of the day after liters of perspiration stuck and blended to the smell of rubber. . .of why I took psychology in college at the peril of my lifetime’s security. (And by reading Kafka on the Shore all of this mystery was unlocked? . . .and with the effect of an opened Pandora’s box?) No. Actually, all of the mystery just remained in me. They are still there turning the confusing pattern of a mosaic into an infinite and changing and swirling and drowning mirages of color, shapes, etc. like what your kaleidoscope is doing. (I’m a bit confused!) Likewise, the world is but a metaphor. And so don’t fret.
There’s always transference in reading Murakami like no other book has hit me. And after reading Kafka, I never hesitated to peek more into Murakami’s subconscious thoughts like knowing my own. Slipped into Norwegian Wood, drowned myself in Wind-up Bird Chronicle, and soberly squeezed the life of next month’s budget to satisfy such weird addiction. . . and I am more happy, happy and satisfied.
A critic of Murakami’s prose alleged that there’s excessive profundity and name-check. . .of him joining the fanatical bandwagon of authors’ using titles that strike a note among readers. . . The Da Vinci Code, The Dante Club. . .blah, blah, blah could be the ponderings to achieve a marketing ploy. On why she finds Umibe no Kafuka “a book most certainly obscured by weeds and metaphorical ferns” is not in itself a mystery. (http://www.oxonianreview.org/issues/5-1/5-1carr.html) Almost all readers admitted they were lost. Mine was like that experienced by Satoru Nakata when he saw the silver light in the sky and fell into a deep sleep and the whole period of amnesia and fantasy after that. Murakami told in an interview that his novel is one full of riddles. But the critic insisted, if this is one of riddles. . .the answer to this riddle is a riddle and the riddle a riddle and so on. And as to why she’s persistent is quite evident in her choice of character: Hoshino. Yes, more than Kafka and Satoru and the talking cats.
On why I love this book more than anything else is because it defines heaven amidst doldrums. I can definitely say that in a degree of transference this one has traveled the long journey from the hidden part of the iceberg to the obvious and patent. And who will give his second thoughts in empathizing with Kafka’s reason. “There’s a void inside me, a blank that is slowly expanding, devouring what’s left of who I am. I can hear it happening.” We will always be prone to the subconscious pull and it would be often trampling upon logic and norm. The result would be gawkish more likely and you would be more likely to detest it unless you see, at the least, some subconscious outbursts to be normal and useful. Unless one would heed to Kafka’s resolve : “I head for the core of the labyrinth, giving myself up to the void.”
“I probably won’t.” said the pregnant cat. “I’ve been there before and my memory of it is quite murky and hostile.”
“The writer seems to hate cats and likes felicide.”
No. Actually, he’s a fan of your type that’s why you’re always a part of every story he makes.
12 comments:
Haha! Nice sana may ganyan din akong pet...
Love it!
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hi there, sorry off-topic. mind if we exchange links? :)
Hi Ebudae! Naku sorry di ako maka-relate ha. Magha-hi na lang ako sayo :)
And sana dalawin mo ako sa bago kong bahay at kng pwede makikipa-link uli :D
Happy Wednesday!
thanks for adding me, will return the favor. cheers! :)
very cool Muning! :)
I like kafka
"A book must be an ice-axe to break the seas frozen inside our soul."
My copy of Kafka on the Shore is lying close to me. I haven't read it yet, I'm still caught up in The Bell Jar. I may not read it soon but if it evoked that much thought and emotions from you, I'll make sure to read it. :)
Sa kasamaang palad, hindi talaga ako nakakapagbasa masyado ng mga banyagang libro. Bilang lang talaga sa daliri ko. Halos kasi puro Filipiniana at mga libro ng Pinoy Authors ang meron ako. =)
wow, your cat's got taste man.
I think I will teach my dog to read PDI. Haha. Seriously, a profound entry. Thanks for infusing more deepness in me.
astig.
hindi ako pamilyar kay murakami, paborito ko si kafka. naalala kong sinabi nya minsan: "Sex is punishment for being together."
pansin ko lang sa mga readers mo, yung mga naunang mag-comment sa entry mo na ito, nakakadisappoint, mga kabataan tsktsk. sana mali ako.
I have only read Murakami's Wild Sheep Chase and I love how he was able to play the story without even naming his protagonist. I'm still debating whether to read Norwegian Wood first or go on to Kafka On The Shore.
Can I hug the cat? :-)
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