Murakami has a way to bewitch his readers through a bluntly mundane approach to the surreal and unpalpable. His writing entrances us in a world that is half magical and exotic, half intimate and familiar. This suspense – the way it pends from one side to the other, never really firmly landing in none – is likely what attracts so many people into his work. And his work is attractive: he is probably the most successful Japanese author in the West ever.
Still, I keep asking myself while reading him what is the catch, where is the enchantment. I browse through the pages insatiably, never truly feeling fulfilled. In the end, although it is never boring, it falls short of excitement. I feel tricked, fooled.
Is he a bad author? It is not for me to say this. I would say, though, that he is deeply engaging and very secure of his own style. Nonetheless, this sense of confidence may very well be what prevents me from diving deeper into his words. He seems simply too confident to present his plethora of insecure and oddly awkward characters in a way that feels convincing to me.
I read once that Murakami is a very dedicated athlete. He runs, and bikes, and swims. He walks through this world like a champion and writes about the underdogs. I don’t mean to dismiss him. I enjoy reading his books. But deep down, I still feel like he points to a fascinating world that amazes his readers, but which, seen through his lenses, although alluring, is severely incomplete.