Realismo Magico, pero en Ingles: a Review of Kafka on the Shore

The best way I can explain Kafka on the Shore is by quoting myself when I was explaining Pavement (the band, not the thing) to a certain individual who’s relationship to me is currently undefined: “It’s so so so good it doesn’t feel real it’s like a dream only a couple of people have had.”

Written by Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore is a fever dream. It starts with the story of Kafka Tamura, a young boy whose sexual desires and experiences Murakami does too good a job of describing. There are a couple jumpscare-type intrusive thoughts that we have the delight(?) of getting to hear in a first person perspective, through Kafka’s teenage brain. However, the perspective shifts to the second subject of the story, Nakata, an not-so-wise old man. Nakata’s storyline is softer, with a slower pace. Although his story starts off with more magical elements, it feels more realistic than Kafka’s. Both characters embark on parallel journeys, and honestly, the only reason I kept pushing through was because I read a wikipedia review that said the stories connected at some point. That appealed to me because it felt Lost-ish and Jorge Luis Borges-like, both things I am a massive fan of. I won't spoil it, but the connection turns out to be less than what I expected, yet far more satisfying than what I thought. It was extremely fun to see both separate storyline characters interact near the end.

The writing is clean, which works best at its simplicity because it makes the surreal feel concrete. His diction is so direct that it doesn’t feel suffocating, which is essential in a story like this. Murakami includes references to just about everything. From hyper-American icons that I had somehow buried in my mind to old bands and even war, he creates a warped shrine of culture that adds another level of perspective to the story. Although I would’ve enjoyed more musical elements, his prose creates such a beautiful rhythm throughout the story that no soundtrack is needed.

My one critique, or at least the hardest thing for me to swallow, was that Murakami’s male perspective is extremely hard to get away from. It is jarring, and maybe it's my prudish catholic brain that cannot take the sudden maleness injected within the story, but words like cock sprinkled throughout aren't exactly fitting with the tone that Murakami builds throughout. But maybe this is his intent: to wake the reader up from the dreamlike state induced while reading with a heavy-handed blow of the most human thing there is, sex. Keep in mind I’m not fucking with you when I say that this book felt like being inside a hallucination. Murakami realizes this effect though, so he keeps some characters outside the “hallucination,” so that when the plot gets too unrealistic (which, I realize, is less than I thought it would), even the characters are shaken out of it. Very meta, and very scary to read through the switch as soon as you realize there needs to be a switch. Great writing.

Last note, Murakami leaves questions unanswered. Not one or two, but major plot points are left with strings untied. What left me shocked was that when Kafka on the Shore did this, I wasn’t the least bit mad about it. I was excited because I could figure it out for myself while rereading or commenting about the book. This ability to leave ends open is the second thing I most admire about Haruki Murakami’s writing style. You can figure out the first by yourself.