Genre Fiction
![Haruki Murakami - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B000AP7AFI.jpg)
Killing Commendatore: A novel
A tour de force of love and loneliness, war and art, Killing Commendatore is a stunning work of imagination from one of our greatest writers.
When a thirty-something portrait painter is abandoned by his wife, he secludes himself in the mountain home of a world famous artist. One day, the young painter hears a noise from the attic, and upon investigation, he discovers a previously unseen painting. By unearthing this hidden work of art, he unintentionally opens a circle of mysterious circumstances; and to close it, he must undertake a perilous journey into a netherworld that only Haruki Murakami could conjure.
When a thirty-something portrait painter is abandoned by his wife, he secludes himself in the mountain home of a world famous artist. One day, the young painter hears a noise from the attic, and upon investigation, he discovers a previously unseen painting. By unearthing this hidden work of art, he unintentionally opens a circle of mysterious circumstances; and to close it, he must undertake a perilous journey into a netherworld that only Haruki Murakami could conjure.
Editorial Reviews
"Exhilarating." -The Washington Post
"Some novelists hold a mirror up to the world and some, like Haruki Murakami, use the mirror as a portal to a universe hidden beyond it." -The Wall Street Journal
"[Murakami] is as masterful as ever." -Houston Chronicle
"A spellbinding parable of art, history, and human loneliness." -O, The Oprah Magazine
"The product of a singular imagination." -San Francisco Chronicle
"Expansive and intricate." -The New York Times
"Beguiling. . . . Murakami is brilliant." -The Guardian
"Dazzling. . . . [Murakami] reveals how an artist sees the world." -Entertainment Weekly
"[A] sprawling, uncanny epic. . . . A time-traveling tale of loss, longing, and the creation of art-with an ample dash of Murakami's trademark deadpan humor." -Vanity Fair
"A perfect balance of tradition and individual talent. . . . Murakami dancing along ‘the inky blackness of the Path of Metaphor' is like Fred Astaire dancing across a floor, then up the walls and onto the ceiling." -The Spectator
"A surreal, world-altering epic punctuated by art, literature and history." -Time
"[Murakami] once more explicates the seemingly impossible with such thorough, exacting conviction to make believers of us all." -The Christian Science Monitor
"No other author mixes domestic, fantastic and esoteric elements into such weirdly bewitching shades. . . . Just as [Murakami] straddles barriers dividing high art from mass entertainment, so he suspends borders between east and west." -Financial Times
"[Killing Commendatore] marks the return of a master." -Esquire
"The complex landscape that Murakami assembles in Killing Commendatore is a word portrait of the artist's inner life." -The Times Literary Supplement
"Fascinating. . . . Drawing on Buddhist spiritualism, metaphysics and magical realism-not to mention Lewis Carroll-Killing Commendatore finds its narrator enmeshed in a singular philosophic adventure." -Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
"Enthralling." -Forward
"Murakami beautifully captures the evanescence of inspiration." -Vulture
"Its size, beauty, and concerns with lust and war bring us back to the vividness and scale of [Murakami's] 1997 epic, The Wind-up Bird Chronicle.'' -The Boston Globe
"Lovely and strange." -Bustle
"Wild, thrilling. . . . Murakami is a master storyteller and he knows how to keep us hooked. . . . What makes his...
"Some novelists hold a mirror up to the world and some, like Haruki Murakami, use the mirror as a portal to a universe hidden beyond it." -The Wall Street Journal
"[Murakami] is as masterful as ever." -Houston Chronicle
"A spellbinding parable of art, history, and human loneliness." -O, The Oprah Magazine
"The product of a singular imagination." -San Francisco Chronicle
"Expansive and intricate." -The New York Times
"Beguiling. . . . Murakami is brilliant." -The Guardian
"Dazzling. . . . [Murakami] reveals how an artist sees the world." -Entertainment Weekly
"[A] sprawling, uncanny epic. . . . A time-traveling tale of loss, longing, and the creation of art-with an ample dash of Murakami's trademark deadpan humor." -Vanity Fair
"A perfect balance of tradition and individual talent. . . . Murakami dancing along ‘the inky blackness of the Path of Metaphor' is like Fred Astaire dancing across a floor, then up the walls and onto the ceiling." -The Spectator
"A surreal, world-altering epic punctuated by art, literature and history." -Time
"[Murakami] once more explicates the seemingly impossible with such thorough, exacting conviction to make believers of us all." -The Christian Science Monitor
"No other author mixes domestic, fantastic and esoteric elements into such weirdly bewitching shades. . . . Just as [Murakami] straddles barriers dividing high art from mass entertainment, so he suspends borders between east and west." -Financial Times
"[Killing Commendatore] marks the return of a master." -Esquire
"The complex landscape that Murakami assembles in Killing Commendatore is a word portrait of the artist's inner life." -The Times Literary Supplement
"Fascinating. . . . Drawing on Buddhist spiritualism, metaphysics and magical realism-not to mention Lewis Carroll-Killing Commendatore finds its narrator enmeshed in a singular philosophic adventure." -Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
"Enthralling." -Forward
"Murakami beautifully captures the evanescence of inspiration." -Vulture
"Its size, beauty, and concerns with lust and war bring us back to the vividness and scale of [Murakami's] 1997 epic, The Wind-up Bird Chronicle.'' -The Boston Globe
"Lovely and strange." -Bustle
"Wild, thrilling. . . . Murakami is a master storyteller and he knows how to keep us hooked. . . . What makes his...
Readers Top Reviews
Dalek43
After months of anticipation, the first thing that infuriated me about Killing Commendatore was the sheer size and weight of the book. It was even too tall to fit on my bookshelf alongside all my other Murakami novels – by the same publisher. Why make it so huge?! Just in the same of cover design and fanfare? All of Harvil Secker's previous hardback editions are of a consistent size. This cumbersome, unwieldy size and weight make for uncomfortable and inconvenient bedtime reading. An awful, un-useable format. Then there's the content. Whether pressured by the publisher to put out another "hit" book, or an author simply resting on his laurels, Killing Commendatore contains every overly-familiar Murakami trope, but with none of the magic of I484 or Kafka on the Shore, nor any of the intellect of Norwegian Wood or Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki. The pace is achingly slow (to go with the weight of the book) and it takes such a long time for anything remotely curious to happen, you're left wondering if anything will even happen at all. My final complaint is with regards to the translation itself, which has been left littered with American spellings and grammar. Although it has its moments of potential, Killing Commendatore feels more like an unsuccessful Murakami clone. A drab and frustrating read; very disappointing.
Bartholomewmarkr
I love Murakami novels, always have. This one is up their with his better ones for me. I only down graded it because in almost all his books he’s invariably demonstrating his obsession with sex. I’m really not coming at this from the prudish point of view....My problem is that his handling of sex is not only gratuitous- certainly does not add anything to the storyline - but it’s soooooo deadly dull. Yes - people have sex. Can we get on with the story now? It’s like he’s not managed to find too much sex in his own life, so has to give up a third of every novel to the characters in his stories. At least with 1Q84 the sex/violence played a role in the characters’ tale - particularly the woman who would get murdered by someone she picked up. Shame he can’t put a lid on this problem and just tell stories. Ive reaches a point that I just skip through till I get by the latest round of sex, so I suppose it doesn’t have to be a major issue.... Good storyteller other than that...
Tech XXIII
my friends are maybe thinking there's something wrong with this book! well, stab me with a tiny sword i don't know what my friends want - surely not another 'kafka on the shore' or another '1Q84'? negative! murakami has already written those books, and as brilliant as they are, he doesn't need to write them again! affirmative! i have read virtually all his books, certainly all the fiction, and for me, this slots easily into the top five. like most of his fiction the story stays with you long after you finish reading, and not just because you are trying to figure out the whys and wherefores of an elusive explanation to the ending. that bothers me little and seems to be deliberate anyway. it's a different kind of narrative, the magical elements subtly dropped in, and as with his best works, a journey. one where the un-named protagonist goes a long way before he can go a short way, and then another way altogether! my friends also make reference to the inclusion of repetitive elements such as cooking, classical music, cats (to be fair the cat appears very late in the story), but if it's what you know and what you're interested in, what's the problem? - it adds to the feeling of belonging the reader experiences and the writer generates! the actual story is detailed well enough in my friends' reviews, i don't feel a need to add anything other than that murakami continues to create fiction that is unique, haunting, creative, compelling and you need to get a read of this!
maya
Truth is, Killing Commendatore is an excellent novel, if you are a Murakami fan. I have never before encountered an author whose works feel so personal, they are almost entities that generate moods and an atmosphere of total immersion. With this book, as with all the others, my life was put on hold, and I was able to think of little else than wanting to return into the story’s soft embrace. Yes, it’s confirmed, I suppose, that Murakami isn’t quite able to comprehend women as equal beings with humanity that parallels that of men. For a 70 year old Japanese man, that’s perhaps not so unusual, but considering the depth of understanding he shows for male (his own?) psyche, it is terribly disappointing. Literally every female character is set in a sexual context in this novel, and judging by his previous works, I suppose sexuality is the only context Murakami can set women into, even if they are blatantly asexual, or their sexualisation is barly concealed due to their too young an age, or most commonly they are primarily sexual providers, then carers, supporters, cheerleaders, for the main character. I’m a feminist (not the kind that thinks pole dancing is “empowering” btw) but even though I rage at the patriarchy, Murakami doesn’t anger me. He writes what he knows as honestly as he can, and he isn’t trying to hide his shortcomings too much. It’s easy to see how the range of emotions and rich inner life he describes is equally applicable to men and women, it’s just sad that Murakami isn’t able to appreciate it himself. Still, this novel delivers in the way fans have come to expect, and despite many reviews claiming a scattered and meandering narrative, to my eyes this is nothing of the sort. It is beautifully and deliberately crafted, and apart from some repetition, it’s a tightly written story whose world you won’t want to leave. If you are just about to pick up your first Murakami novel, leave this page and search for Wind Up Bird Chronicle. Or Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage. I think it’s best to explore his earlier works first and then come back and read this novel. But if you are a fan, you are in for a treat. Even if within his body of work this novel doesn’t score as highly as some others, it’s a work unlike that of any other author, and for that reason it gets five stars from me. ps. I collect Murakami hardcovers and this one did not disappoint. It’s a gorgeous looking book, if a little tough to read lying down, due to its size, but I just can’t get into Murakami stories in ebook format for some reason..
Short Excerpt Teaser
Prologue
Today when I awoke from a nap the faceless man was there before me. He was seated on the chair across from the sofa I'd been sleeping on, staring straight at me with a pair of imaginary eyes in a face that wasn't.
The man was tall, and he was dressed the same as when I had seen him last. His face-that-wasn't-a-face was half hidden by a wide-brimmed black hat, and he had on a long, equally dark coat.
"I came here so you could draw my portrait," the faceless man said, after he'd made sure I was fully awake. His voice was low, toneless, flat. "You promised you would. You remember?"
"Yes, I remember. But I couldn't draw it then because I didn't have any paper," I said. My voice, too, was toneless and flat. "So to make up for it I gave you a little penguin charm."
"Yes, I brought it with me," he said, and held out his right hand. In his hand-which was extremely long-he held a small plastic penguin, the kind you often see attached to a cell phone strap as a good-luck charm. He dropped it on top of the glass coffee table, where it landed with a small clunk.
"I'm returning this. You probably need it. This little penguin will be the charm that should protect those you love. In exchange, I want you to draw my portrait."
I was perplexed. "I get it, but I've never drawn a portrait of a person without a face."
My throat was parched.
"From what I hear, you're an outstanding portrait artist. And there's a first time for everything," the faceless man said. And then he laughed. At least, I think he did. That laugh-like voice was like the empty sound of wind blowing up from deep inside a cavern.
He took off the hat that hid half of his face. Where the face should have been, there was nothing, just the slow whirl of a fog.
I stood up and retrieved a sketchbook and a soft pencil from my studio. I sat back down on the sofa, ready to draw a portrait of the man with no face. But I had no idea where to begin, or how to get started. There was only a void, and how are you supposed to give form to something that does not exist? And the milky fog that surrounded the void was continually changing shape.
"You'd better hurry," the faceless man said. "I can't stay here forlong."
My heart was beating dully inside my chest. I didn't have much time. I had to hurry. But my fingers holding the pencil just hung there in midair, immobilized. It was as though everything from my wrist down into my hand were numb. There were several people I had to protect, and all I was able to do was draw pictures. Even so, there was no way I could draw him. I stared at the whirling fog. "I'm sorry, but your time's up," the man without a face said a little while later. From his faceless mouth, he let out a deep breath, like pale fog hovering over a river.
"Please wait. If you give me just a little more time-"
The man put his black hat back on, once again hiding half of his face."One day I'll visit you again. Maybe by then you'll be able to draw me. Until then, I'll keep this penguin charm."
Then he vanished. Like a mist suddenly blown away by a freshening breeze, he vanished into thin air. All that remained was the unoccupied chair and the glass table. The penguin charm was gone from the tabletop.
It all seemed like a short dream. But I knew very well that it wasn't. If this was a dream, then the world I'm living in itself must all be a dream.
Maybe someday I'll be able to draw a portrait of nothingness. Just like another artist was able to complete a painting titled Killing Commendatore. But to do so I would need time to get to that point. I would have to have time on my side.
Today when I awoke from a nap the faceless man was there before me. He was seated on the chair across from the sofa I'd been sleeping on, staring straight at me with a pair of imaginary eyes in a face that wasn't.
The man was tall, and he was dressed the same as when I had seen him last. His face-that-wasn't-a-face was half hidden by a wide-brimmed black hat, and he had on a long, equally dark coat.
"I came here so you could draw my portrait," the faceless man said, after he'd made sure I was fully awake. His voice was low, toneless, flat. "You promised you would. You remember?"
"Yes, I remember. But I couldn't draw it then because I didn't have any paper," I said. My voice, too, was toneless and flat. "So to make up for it I gave you a little penguin charm."
"Yes, I brought it with me," he said, and held out his right hand. In his hand-which was extremely long-he held a small plastic penguin, the kind you often see attached to a cell phone strap as a good-luck charm. He dropped it on top of the glass coffee table, where it landed with a small clunk.
"I'm returning this. You probably need it. This little penguin will be the charm that should protect those you love. In exchange, I want you to draw my portrait."
I was perplexed. "I get it, but I've never drawn a portrait of a person without a face."
My throat was parched.
"From what I hear, you're an outstanding portrait artist. And there's a first time for everything," the faceless man said. And then he laughed. At least, I think he did. That laugh-like voice was like the empty sound of wind blowing up from deep inside a cavern.
He took off the hat that hid half of his face. Where the face should have been, there was nothing, just the slow whirl of a fog.
I stood up and retrieved a sketchbook and a soft pencil from my studio. I sat back down on the sofa, ready to draw a portrait of the man with no face. But I had no idea where to begin, or how to get started. There was only a void, and how are you supposed to give form to something that does not exist? And the milky fog that surrounded the void was continually changing shape.
"You'd better hurry," the faceless man said. "I can't stay here forlong."
My heart was beating dully inside my chest. I didn't have much time. I had to hurry. But my fingers holding the pencil just hung there in midair, immobilized. It was as though everything from my wrist down into my hand were numb. There were several people I had to protect, and all I was able to do was draw pictures. Even so, there was no way I could draw him. I stared at the whirling fog. "I'm sorry, but your time's up," the man without a face said a little while later. From his faceless mouth, he let out a deep breath, like pale fog hovering over a river.
"Please wait. If you give me just a little more time-"
The man put his black hat back on, once again hiding half of his face."One day I'll visit you again. Maybe by then you'll be able to draw me. Until then, I'll keep this penguin charm."
Then he vanished. Like a mist suddenly blown away by a freshening breeze, he vanished into thin air. All that remained was the unoccupied chair and the glass table. The penguin charm was gone from the tabletop.
It all seemed like a short dream. But I knew very well that it wasn't. If this was a dream, then the world I'm living in itself must all be a dream.
Maybe someday I'll be able to draw a portrait of nothingness. Just like another artist was able to complete a painting titled Killing Commendatore. But to do so I would need time to get to that point. I would have to have time on my side.
