Another subtle masterpiece from the Master of Surrealism himself, Murakami; but hot on the metaphorical heels of Kafka on the Shore, some of you will certainly be a tad disappointed.
This tome tracks the motion (or lack thereof) of a group of Japanese through the wee hours of the morning. A central concept is that of transience. Everything floats, is translucent, or shimmers; the female protagonist's sister alternately moves from the world behind the camera to the world before it, and the two main characters spend the night floating restlessly from one conversation to another, whiling away the hours till daybreak.
Again, this book is less Murakami than usual; nothing actually happens throughout. Unlike the relentless energy of the Wind-Up Bird Chronicle or the mental flitting-between-scenes that occurs throughout Hard-Boiled Wonderland, this book is a serious exposition of the nature of sleep, and its proponents. People in the novel behave as if they were in a deep sleep, merely with their eyes open in a perfunctory manner; even their movements and thoughts are more languid than one would expect of the coffee-fueled nightstalker.
The language largely mirrors said intended effect; words, sentences, even concepts, are lazily drawn out. Murakami never scopes in to a particular event; he gives it a wide berth, describing it from all possible angles, embellishing it with detail, no doubt, but at the same time, losing vision, one sometimes feels.
On whole, a rather interesting, but ultimately, un-Murakami work. I give it a 7/10.
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