Yucky Murakami

When I was in Chicago, I began my as-yet-quite-short relationship with mister Haruki Murakami by was of Frank Gelati's adaptation (and brilliant staging) of after the quake. That was fall of ought-five. I read that series of short stories in spring ought-six, and now have just completed his Kakfa on the Shore.

In a sprawling, mystical tale, we meet Kafka, his conscience, his "mother," his "sister," his father, his father's killer, and a few other assorted characters along the way. It's a terrifying Oedipal story of love, loss and memory.

I say terrifying because it is. For the reader as well as our fifteen-year old runaway, Kafka. It's unbearable for about 40% of the 400 page novel, in that it's so egregiously graphic and excessive. I'm actually cringing writing this right now.

Of course, some of it is quite interesting, especially if you just give up the real world and let Murakami's crazy magical world live. It's fine, but I'm glad I've finished and can move on to Crichton's newest, Next.