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“Haruki Murakami is probably my favorite modern fiction writer, which is strange, because his style is so different from almost anything else I can really call a favorite. His books are often told in casual, conversational language that shows not a hint of an attempt to be artistic, but this plainness is fitting, as it mirrors the usual type of character that Murakami often writes: boring, ordinary men (and, less often, women), who really don't have anything terribly exciting going on in their lives or any special skill worth talking about. It is the lives of such people that the strangeness and surrealness of Murakami's stories invades, arriving without warning or fanfare, but filling up their world with an almost inexpressible sense of significance, atmosphere and meaning.
1Q84 fits this pattern well. It follows two main characters, a writer and math teacher named Tengo, and a personal fitness trainer called Aomame, who went to elementary school together but haven't seen each other since. Both of them are still in love with each other, and believe deep down that they will meet again, even though they are now in their thirties. When Tengo reluctantly accepts a job to rewrite a novel by a young teenage author, both he and Aomame get drawn into a strange, perilous and ominous parallel world where Little People mysteriously weave cocoons from strands of air and attempt to influence human destiny by manipulating a secretive religious cult. Who these Little People are and what exactly they want with humanity is never explained.
Tengo and Aomame, though both compelling individually, are each aided in their parallel quests (they don't end up meeting each other until very late indeed in the course of the 925 page story) by quirky and somewhat mysterious characters. On Aomame's side of things, there is Tamaru, a gay bodyguard whose ruthless professionalism and resourcefulness are a bit scary; while Tengo is aided by the enigmatic yet infinitely likable Fuka-Eri, the author of the novel he rewrites, a seventeen-year-old girl who seems incapable of using question marks when she speaks and whose connection with the cult both Tengo and Aomame are trying to work against is of central importance.
Since the main story of the book, aside from the romantic aspect, revolves around religious themes, it is of no surprise that there is a lot of interesting material that can at times be thought-provoking and at times a bit irritating. Murakami seems both deeply reverent of religion as well as deeply critical of the potential it has for harm. This critical attitude in no way detracts from the quality of the book as a whole. But since these things are of central interest to me personally, I want to comment on a few of the ways religion is handled. I will try to avoid spoilers as much as possible, but after a certain point they are inevitable in discussing themes and motifs in any story.
On page 243, one of the supporting protagonists states that children "have no way of knowing whether such a doctrine is correct, either as an idea widely accepted by society or as a scientific concept." But when speaking of religious doctrine, neither of these is correct on any viewpoint. Doctrine is neither a social idea nor scientific. It is a religious belief held to be true by the faithful, whether society or science accepts it or not; and in most cases doctrine does not even fall into the arena in which science can affirm or deny.
In one crucial scene, in which Aomame confronts the Leader of the religious cult, the man tells her that her attitude, one of love and the knowledge of humanity as powerless, "is itself the very essence of religion". This is incredibly wrong. While these are both usually important elements of religion, the essence of religion lies in the individual's desire, awareness, and search for a union with something higher and greater than the self. In most cases, this takes the shape of a desire and search for God.
The worst religious idea presented in the novel is, quite fortunately, also one that Murakami seems, whether consciously or unconsciously, not to believe himself, as several events and statements in the later story contradict it. A charitable reading of the novel would suggest that he is setting these events up so that readers can critically examine the defects of the idea that is initially stated, again by Leader to Aomame: the idea that balance between good and evil is the only real good (page 447). But even at first glance the idea is nonsensical, though not by any means a new idea. Without an absolute sense of what good is, it means absolutely nothing to even say that balance — or anything, for that matter — is the good, or a good, or even simply and plainly good. By what metric could it possibly be true or meaningful? On page 542, when Aomame reads the novel that Fuka-Eri and Tengo have written together, she perceives that the Little People are not entirely beyond value, but are rather unhealthy and somehow wrong. This, among other things, suggests Murakami's subtle invitation toward the reader to think critically about the ideas that Leader has presented.
In a similar way, the book in many places makes clear statements but then contradicts them by showing something that suggests reality is not so cut and dry. This is not a flaw, but a strength, again making readers think about the story and the ideas it contains. On page 743, to take another example, Aomame, who has decided that she now believes in God, states that her God has no form and does not give or take away. Yet Aomame soon afterwards believes that the woman who came to her in her dream and gave her both clothing when she was naked, as well as her own life, was a manifestation of God — obviously one who comes to her in a specific form and has given her something real.
In the end, despite the struggle Aomame has had during the course of the entire book with the religion of her childhood (nominally a Christian cult but one whose actions tend toward abuse and heresy more than good faith and orthodoxy), she finally prays the prayer of her childhood, suggesting that there is goodness and appeal to real divinity in that prayer. Even though the words have no meaning to her anymore, they do have effect.
Ultimately, this struggle between doubts and reverence for religion and spirituality is one of the deepest and most compelling aspects of the book, and perhaps makes it Murakami's strongest novel yet. Lush, broad, meandering, mysterious, and mundane all at once, 1Q84 presents its readers with a different world, but one which is eerily and disturbingly like our own, no matter how many moons it happens to have. There is also a sense of a struggle between good and evil — or at very least between healthiness and decidedly sinister unhealthiness — that has not been present in his past novels. This juxtaposition of such deep explorations with the ultimately plain, captivating and endearing love story between two characters who have been driven apart by every vicissitude of fate and yet who seem almost destined to meet from the very first chapters, is another admirable and memorable feat of Murakami's. This year is the second he's almost won the Noble Prize for Literature, but has fallen short. If 1Q84 doesn't win it for him next year, then I honestly don't know what will. ”
Michael wrote this review Tuesday, November 22, 2011.
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