Fantasy
![Haruki Murakami - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B000AP7AFI.jpg)
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle: A Novel
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle is a tour de force-and one of Haruki Murakami's most acclaimed and beloved novels.
In a Tokyo suburb, a young man named Toru Okada searches for his wife's missing cat-and then for his wife as well-in a netherworld beneath the city's placid surface. As these searches intersect, he encounters a bizarre group of allies and antagonists. Gripping, prophetic, and suffused with comedy and menace, this is an astonishingly imaginative detective story, an account of a disintegrating marriage, and an excavation of the buried secrets from Japan's forgotten campaign in Manchuria during World War II.
In a Tokyo suburb, a young man named Toru Okada searches for his wife's missing cat-and then for his wife as well-in a netherworld beneath the city's placid surface. As these searches intersect, he encounters a bizarre group of allies and antagonists. Gripping, prophetic, and suffused with comedy and menace, this is an astonishingly imaginative detective story, an account of a disintegrating marriage, and an excavation of the buried secrets from Japan's forgotten campaign in Manchuria during World War II.
Editorial Reviews
"Dreamlike and compelling. . . . Murakami is a genius." -Chicago Tribune
"Mesmerizing. . . . Murakami's most ambitious attempt yet to stuff all of modern Japan into a single fictional edifice." -The Washington Post Book World
"A significant advance in Murakami's art . . . a bold and generous book." -The New York Times Book Review
"A stunning work of art . . . that bears no comparisons." -New York Observer
"With The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Murakami spreads his brilliant, fantastical wings and soars." -Philadelphia Inquirer
"Seductive. . . . A labyrinth designed by a master, at once familiar and irresistibly strange." -San Francisco Chronicle
"An epic . . . as sculpted and implacable as a bird by Brancusi." -New York Magazine
"Mesmerizing, original . . . fascinating, daring, mysterious and profoundly rewarding." -Baltimore Sun
"A beguiling sense of mystery suffuses The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and draws us irresistibly and ever deeper into the phantasmagoria of pain and memory. . . . Compelling [and] convincing." -Los Angeles Times Book Review
"Digs relentlessly into the buried secrets of Japan's past . . . brilliantly translated into the latest vernacular." -Pico Iyer, Time
"Mesmerizing. . . . Murakami's most ambitious attempt yet to stuff all of modern Japan into a single fictional edifice." -The Washington Post Book World
"A significant advance in Murakami's art . . . a bold and generous book." -The New York Times Book Review
"A stunning work of art . . . that bears no comparisons." -New York Observer
"With The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Murakami spreads his brilliant, fantastical wings and soars." -Philadelphia Inquirer
"Seductive. . . . A labyrinth designed by a master, at once familiar and irresistibly strange." -San Francisco Chronicle
"An epic . . . as sculpted and implacable as a bird by Brancusi." -New York Magazine
"Mesmerizing, original . . . fascinating, daring, mysterious and profoundly rewarding." -Baltimore Sun
"A beguiling sense of mystery suffuses The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and draws us irresistibly and ever deeper into the phantasmagoria of pain and memory. . . . Compelling [and] convincing." -Los Angeles Times Book Review
"Digs relentlessly into the buried secrets of Japan's past . . . brilliantly translated into the latest vernacular." -Pico Iyer, Time
Readers Top Reviews
Multi layered and surreal. Very well written and typical Murakami. The central character is normal everyday person drawn into a strange world. His cat goes missing, his wife leaves him, he is drawn to a dry well following the sound of a bird that sounds like a mechanical winding, where reality and mystery divide. Plenty of unusual characters all with strange stories, but all wrapped around the theme of getting his wife back. It flits between past and present, dream and reality. I still had questions at the end, and this was second time I have read Wind Up. Fascinating read, long but worth it. My favourite Murakami novel.
Dr. DinosaurSingh, R
This is the second book I've read by the author, the other being Norwegian Wood. Already knowing this novel would be much different to that, I was nonetheless pleased by the first few chapters and I was excited to see where the story was going. The escapism, abstract ideas and sense of isolation from the narrator's point of view are profound. Unfortunately, things take more and more of a detached turn the further I read, and while I find Japanese history interesting and didn't dislike reading about Manchuria, it didn't really have much to do with the main plot. There are too many twisters and random, separate threads which are not really tied together. I found the ending especially unsatisfactory, for me there was no real sense of achievement or closure for the narrator and this is something I always find frustrating. It left me wanting more from the actual story. I wouldn't say I disliked it, and it was an interesting journey but I doubt I would read it again. The style of writing is great and it hasn't put me off pursuing reading other novels by Murakami.
ChristianJacob Thoma
I love Murakami, I love his writing style; I love the rides he takes you on in his stories and how weird and wonderful they become. But then you have this book... has the usual weirdness, beautiful writing, etc. But it feels dead throughout. Fair enough the main character is supposed to be a VERY normal/uninteresting guy thrown in to a world of madness, but it lacked excitement and genuine entertainment. Maybe it's supposed to make you feel this way since the narrator is the main character, but the only thing that got me through this book was the fact that I'm a Murakami fan, it took a lot of patience to plow through. Even reaching the end felt unsatisfactory, disappointing and kind of a waste of time. I'm sure there is a very intelligent reason behind why he goes through Manchuria and other topics, but it failed to interest me to the point where I was speed reading. So read this book if you are looking for something different or if you want to get through the Murakami series, but I wouldn't recommend this for entertainment.
Rea
How does one review a Murakami book? First I will start by saying, this guy is way too smart for me to grasp all of what he writes. Having said that, I think there was a time in my life that I would have grasped a lot more, but perhaps that time for me has passed....I think to truly appreciate all he expresses in a book that one must read his work over and over. If there is ever a book that you wish to have a dog-eared copy of, with passages underlined 3 times in bold pen, Murakami's works would be it. Part of my problem trying to absorb (and this is an author you *really* do absorb...He words sink into your bones, into your very tissue...one does not simply read Murakami, if you do, you are not doing it right....)Murakami is that I often get so enthralled with a single passage that my mind must stay and linger there for a great deal of time. Never mind that I have tried to continue on reading, my mind is still caressing a single passage over and over....so in effect, I often find myself having to go back and re read parts of the book.... Now this book. Many questions are asked here...and in true Murakami style, he leaves much to you, the reader, to decide the answers...I often get aggravated with authors that do this, but not with Murakami. He always ends the books in the only way possible to end them! Yes, he has the moon and the stars in this book. He has good and evil. He has mysterious women....and he has a very simple, ordinary man, faced with what he knows in his heart to be true, even though everyone and everything is saying different. I think this book had a beautiful, fairy tale ending to it. It was so suspenseful in parts (I usually don't get my heart pounding so fast as this book did!)....How far would you go for love? How much faith could you put in what your heart knows to be true, even though you mind tells you it is not? Finally, the question is asked is all you gain in the end worth the price you pay to stay true to your own self? Of course there are many other aspects to this book...Far too many for me to try to explain or even understand, but this is what will stick with me from this book for a long time..... as is true with any Murakami novel, you should travel this journey yourself to experience all he has to offer....and remember, you *must* stop and enjoy the scenery...the desalination of his books are only that...the end....the true magic lies in just getting there.....
Andy Glickweston
This is my fifth book by Murakami. I am constantly amazed by his imagination and the situations he creates and of course, his creative genius. However, I did find this book difficult to become completely absorbed in. It seemed like every single character intentionally had something "odd or unusual" about them and it just became overwhelming and confusing and, at times, tedious for me to keep my interest up. The stories and dreams and flashbacks all presented in italics seemed to just go on and on for far too long. The book did have some of the fascinating "alternate realities that we have come to expect from Murakami. Overall, I think the book could have been shorter and more concise. But, that said, I am looking forward to my sixth book...
Short Excerpt Teaser
Book One: The Thieving Magpie
June and July 1984
1
Tuesday's Wind-Up Bird
•
Six Fingers and Four Breasts
When the phone rang I was in the kitchen, boiling a potful of spaghetti and whistling along with an FM broadcast of the overture to Rossini's The Thieving Magpie, which has to be the perfect music for cooking pasta.
I wanted to ignore the phone, not only because the spaghetti was nearly done, but because Claudio Abbado was bringing the London Symphony to its musical climax. Finally, though, I had to give in. It could have been somebody with news of a job opening. I lowered the flame, went to the living room, and picked up the receiver.
"Ten minutes, please," said a woman on the other end.
I'm good at recognizing people's voices, but this was not one I knew.
"Excuse me? To whom did you wish to speak?"
"To you, of course. Ten minutes, please. That's all we need to understand each other." Her voice was low and soft but otherwise nondescript.
"Understand each other?"
"Each other's feelings."
I leaned over and peeked through the kitchen door. The spaghetti pot was steaming nicely, and Claudio Abbado was still conducting The Thieving Magpie.
"Sorry, but you caught me in the middle of making spaghetti. Can I ask you to call back later?"
"Spaghetti? What are you doing cooking spaghetti at ten-thirty in the morning?"
"That's none of your business," I said. "I decide what I eat and when I eat it."
"True enough. I'll call back," she said, her voice now flat and expressionless. A little change in mood can do amazing things to the tone of a person's voice.
"Hold on a minute," I said before she could hang up. "If this is some new sales gimmick, you can forget it. I'm out of work. I'm not in the market for anything."
"Don't worry. I know."
"You know? You know what?"
"That you're out of work. I know about that. So go cook your precious spaghetti."
"Who the hell--"
She cut the connection.
With no outlet for my feelings, I stared at the phone in my hand until I remembered the spaghetti. Back in the kitchen, I turned off the gas and poured the contents of the pot into a colander. Thanks to the phone call, the spaghetti was a little softer than al dente, but it had not been dealt a mortal blow. I started eating--and thinking.
Understand each other? Understand each other's feelings in ten minutes? What was she talking about? Maybe it was just a prank call. Or some new sales pitch. In any case, it had nothing to do with me.
After lunch, I went back to my library novel on the living room sofa, glancing every now and then at the telephone.
What were we supposed to understand about each other in ten minutes? What can two people understand about each other in ten minutes? Come to think of it, she seemed awfully sure about those ten minutes: it was the first thing out of her mouth. As if nine minutes would be too short or eleven minutes too long. Like cooking spaghetti al dente.
I couldn't read anymore. I decided to iron shirts instead. Which is what I always do when I'm upset. It's an old habit. I divide the job into twelve precise stages, beginning with the collar (outer surface) and ending with the left-hand cuff. The order is always the same, and I count off each stage to myself. Otherwise, it won't come out right.
I ironed three shirts, checking them over for wrinkles and putting them on hangers. Once I had switched off the iron and put it away with the ironing board in the hall closet, my mind felt a good deal clearer.
I was on my way to the kitchen for a glass of water when the phone rang again. I hesitated for a second but decided to answer it. If it was the same woman, I'd tell her I was ironing and hang up.
This time it was Kumiko. The wall clock said eleven-thirty. "How are you?" she asked.
"Fine," I said, relieved to hear my wife's voice.
"What are you doing?"
"Just finished ironing."
"What's wrong?" There was a note of tension in her voice. She knew what it meant for me to be ironing.
"Nothing. I was just ironing some shirts." I sat down and shifted the receiver from my left hand to my right. "What's up?"
"Can you write poetry?" she asked.
"Poetry!?" Poetry? Did she mean . . . poetry?
"I know the publisher of a story magazine for girls. They're looking for somebody to pick and revise poems submitted by readers. And they want the person to write a short poem every month for the frontispiece. Pay's not bad for an easy job. Of course, it's part-time. But they might add some editorial work if the person--"
"Easy work"? I bro...
June and July 1984
1
Tuesday's Wind-Up Bird
•
Six Fingers and Four Breasts
When the phone rang I was in the kitchen, boiling a potful of spaghetti and whistling along with an FM broadcast of the overture to Rossini's The Thieving Magpie, which has to be the perfect music for cooking pasta.
I wanted to ignore the phone, not only because the spaghetti was nearly done, but because Claudio Abbado was bringing the London Symphony to its musical climax. Finally, though, I had to give in. It could have been somebody with news of a job opening. I lowered the flame, went to the living room, and picked up the receiver.
"Ten minutes, please," said a woman on the other end.
I'm good at recognizing people's voices, but this was not one I knew.
"Excuse me? To whom did you wish to speak?"
"To you, of course. Ten minutes, please. That's all we need to understand each other." Her voice was low and soft but otherwise nondescript.
"Understand each other?"
"Each other's feelings."
I leaned over and peeked through the kitchen door. The spaghetti pot was steaming nicely, and Claudio Abbado was still conducting The Thieving Magpie.
"Sorry, but you caught me in the middle of making spaghetti. Can I ask you to call back later?"
"Spaghetti? What are you doing cooking spaghetti at ten-thirty in the morning?"
"That's none of your business," I said. "I decide what I eat and when I eat it."
"True enough. I'll call back," she said, her voice now flat and expressionless. A little change in mood can do amazing things to the tone of a person's voice.
"Hold on a minute," I said before she could hang up. "If this is some new sales gimmick, you can forget it. I'm out of work. I'm not in the market for anything."
"Don't worry. I know."
"You know? You know what?"
"That you're out of work. I know about that. So go cook your precious spaghetti."
"Who the hell--"
She cut the connection.
With no outlet for my feelings, I stared at the phone in my hand until I remembered the spaghetti. Back in the kitchen, I turned off the gas and poured the contents of the pot into a colander. Thanks to the phone call, the spaghetti was a little softer than al dente, but it had not been dealt a mortal blow. I started eating--and thinking.
Understand each other? Understand each other's feelings in ten minutes? What was she talking about? Maybe it was just a prank call. Or some new sales pitch. In any case, it had nothing to do with me.
After lunch, I went back to my library novel on the living room sofa, glancing every now and then at the telephone.
What were we supposed to understand about each other in ten minutes? What can two people understand about each other in ten minutes? Come to think of it, she seemed awfully sure about those ten minutes: it was the first thing out of her mouth. As if nine minutes would be too short or eleven minutes too long. Like cooking spaghetti al dente.
I couldn't read anymore. I decided to iron shirts instead. Which is what I always do when I'm upset. It's an old habit. I divide the job into twelve precise stages, beginning with the collar (outer surface) and ending with the left-hand cuff. The order is always the same, and I count off each stage to myself. Otherwise, it won't come out right.
I ironed three shirts, checking them over for wrinkles and putting them on hangers. Once I had switched off the iron and put it away with the ironing board in the hall closet, my mind felt a good deal clearer.
I was on my way to the kitchen for a glass of water when the phone rang again. I hesitated for a second but decided to answer it. If it was the same woman, I'd tell her I was ironing and hang up.
This time it was Kumiko. The wall clock said eleven-thirty. "How are you?" she asked.
"Fine," I said, relieved to hear my wife's voice.
"What are you doing?"
"Just finished ironing."
"What's wrong?" There was a note of tension in her voice. She knew what it meant for me to be ironing.
"Nothing. I was just ironing some shirts." I sat down and shifted the receiver from my left hand to my right. "What's up?"
"Can you write poetry?" she asked.
"Poetry!?" Poetry? Did she mean . . . poetry?
"I know the publisher of a story magazine for girls. They're looking for somebody to pick and revise poems submitted by readers. And they want the person to write a short poem every month for the frontispiece. Pay's not bad for an easy job. Of course, it's part-time. But they might add some editorial work if the person--"
"Easy work"? I bro...
