South of the Border, West of the Sun

 South of the Border, West of the Sun

By Haruki Murakami

It's been a while since I've read a Murakami book, and Erin happened upon this one at the library. So I was

excited to pick it up.

This one features a very classic Murakami man. Self-centered, in a dead-end job, haunted by past women in his life. In this case it Shimimoto, who he bonded with in elementary school because they were both only children, apparently a rarity in those days. He was close with her until his family moved and they lost touch. 

As an adult, the man is adrift working as a textbook editor until he meets the woman who becomes his wife. Her father is a wealthy businessman, and backs his opening of two very successful bars/jazz clubs. All is going well: two kids, plenty of money. Then Shimimoto, drawn by the press coverage of the bars, shows up. And all of a sudden the guy can't stop thinking about her; he loves her. He takes a strange journey with her to a river, in which she dumps the ashes of her stillborn baby. The two carry on a platonic affair until, one night, it is consummated. 

In the morning, though, Shiminoto is nowhere to be found. She is gone without a trace. There is a suggestion that perhaps she was merely a figment of the man's imagination. Either way, he is distraught, and all but confesses to his wife, who is beyond understanding, telling him she will stay or go -- whatever he wants. Eventually, he stays.

It's hard to read this as anything other than some weird fantasy. Maybe Murakami wants to be able to sleep around without consequence? Maybe I'm missing something? I don't know, but this book didn't live up to my expectations. The main problem was that magical realism never really crept in. It never got truly weird. Which is what I look for in Murakami. Ah well.