“I do feel that I’ve managed to make something I could maybe call my own world … over time … little by little. And when I’m inside it, to some extent, I feel kind of relieved. But the very fact I felt I had to make such a world probably means that I’m a weak person, that I bruise easily, don’t you think? And in the eyes of society at large, that world of mine is a puny little thing. It’s like a cardboard house: a puff of wind might carry it off somewhere.”

This is what Murakami was supposed to be (at least for me).

A perfect blend of an exploration of human consciousness, with elements which hang between real and unreal. After Kafka on the shore, this is the only book of his whose characters have able to penetrate a wall of mundaneness for me. Each of them felt distinct and natural. OfCourse, the natural flow of the dialogues in every conversation was a huge catalyst in making this book emotionally impactful.

Kafka on the shore and After dark were published back-to-back, with a 2-year gap and I would like to believe that some traces of emotions that he poured in Kafka were kept intact by him to be spilled over After dark 2 years later . Because, as much as I would want to, I couldn’t find this tug of emotions in any of the work post After dark, at least to this extent.

This is the Murakami who made me fell in love with reading. This is the Murakami whom I was searching for. This is the Murakami I would want the surreal world to return us back.