Novelists tend not to rise and fall by the normal physics of pop culture—even a successful book is a weak force compared with the box office and the airwaves. Recently, though, Haruki Murakami has achieved a measure of fame even certain rock stars might be moved to envy. His fiction has been translated into more than 40 languages. Each new book arrives to an Apple-release-like throb of expectation. Murakami’s daily rituals have become the stuff of lore; so are his home-office accoutrements, the landmarks mentioned in his stories, and the Mac G4 and Sony VAIO and Apple iBook laptops on which he has composed. What’s striking is not so much the strength of this popular fetish—readers’ core temperatures rise just as much near Philip Roth (as Philip Roth, of all people, would know)—as its scale. It is hard to call to mind another writer of adult fiction whose novels instantly become cultural events on six continents. Murakami seems to many people specially positioned to rescue serious fiction from its prophecies of doom, if only because no one else’s work can conjure such a strong magnetic field in every time zone on the globe.
To many onlookers and students of the craft, however, Murakami’s forces of attraction aren’t just a cultural anomaly. They are a parlor trick. 1Q84, his nearly 1,000-page new novel, is currently climbing the New York Times best-seller list, and whether this is evidence of achievement or of mere hype has lately been a subject of debate. Skeptical reviewers like Janet Maslin recently described “even his most ardent fans doing back flips as they try to justify this book's glaring troubles.” When Sam Anderson’s revealing profile of Murakami ran on the cover of the New York Times Magazine not long ago, certain readers rushed to their battle stations. “Calling Murakami a ‘global imaginative force’ is a nice way of saying he writes superficial American literature in Japanese,” read one subsequently published comment. 1Q84 is probably too odd a novel to qualify as superficial American literature, but such sentiments are unlikely to vanish anytime soon. It's a paradox of a book: an engrossing and kinetically imaginative novel on one hand and, on the other, a work whose craftsmanship and sentence-to-sentence composition is surprisingly, almost puzzlingly, weak.
This is a sweet and pungent dish that Murakami has been serving for decades. His first novel, Hear the Wind Sing, appeared in 1979 after winning a literary magazine’s new-writer prize and went on to set the stylistic tone for much of what followed. The book was received as a “pop,” American-style novel, not without reason: Murakami famously had an early romance with Chandler, Fitzgerald, and other English-language writers, and he remained a student of American culture well into adulthood. (His university thesis was titled “The Idea of the Journey in American Films.”) Yet Murakami’s debut did not hail an exceptional new literary talent: The judges who awarded him the prize were as ambivalent as judges bestowing an honor can possibly be, variously giving the manuscript a something like a C grade. Murakami himself has said his style at this point was wrought from limited skill as much as from any aesthetic goal. “It’s true that at the time I was fond of Kurt Vonnegut and Richard Brautigan, and it was from them that I learned about this kind of simple, swift-paced style,” he’s explained, “but the main reason for the style of my first novel is that I simply did not have the time to write sustained prose.”
That simple, swift-paced style remained his native mode, though, even as his material found its form and audience elsewhere. “When I start to write, I don’t have any plan at all,” he explained in a Paris Review interview some years back. “I just wait for the story to come.” Until the mid-’90s publication of his more ambitious, societally oriented novel The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Murakami was seen chiefly as a young people’s novelist, a kind of literary Beatle who could speak to the experience of love and cultural ambition in a Japan straining ruttishly westward. And although his popularity among ’80s and ’90s youth tends to be pinned on the pop-cultural references and lifestyle brands that fill his early work—Murakami’s writing, at its most allusive, can feel like a walk through Times Square and up Madison Avenue—his slightly ragged prose style is a crucial part of that youthful appeal.
Reading Murakami's prose as an adult can feel like listening to an 18-year-old trying to convey some inner revelation and having trouble finding the words. Norwegian Wood, the sentimental 1987 novel that sold more than 4 million copies in Japan and brought Murakami international fame, takes up grim subject matter—a haunting double suicide, the loss of youth. But the book’s brisk, cliché-friendly writing gives it a skin of naiveté and optimism that keeps the narrative afloat. “I read Naoko’s letter again and again, and each time I read it I would be filled with that same unbearable sadness I used to feel whenever Naoko herself stared into my eyes,” the narrator explains on learning that the girl he loves has decided to live in a “sanatorium kind of thing” in the hills. “I had no way to deal with it, no place I could take it to or hide it away.” It’s an effective passage not despite its bunting literalism (unbearable sadness described as “unbearable sadness,” trouble dealing with it all conveyed as “I had no way to deal with it”) but because of it. The narrator’s inability to write into the interstices of his feelings helps convey their pathos and their scale.
Fast-forward a couple of decades, and that basic tone has hardly changed. 1Q84 is a novel braided in the tradition of Dickens, its chapters moving between separate but converging story lines. Aomame, the first character we meet, is a martial-arts instructor by vocation and an assassin on the side; she soon becomes aware that she’s entered a separate, parallel world she designates 1Q84. Tengo, the hero of the interwoven story that runs contrapuntally against hers, is a cram-school math teacher by day and aspiring novelist by night; an editor friend asks him to doctor and revise a novella written by a troubled and beautiful 17-year-old girl, Fuka-Eri, so she can win a literary prize. Aomame joins up with a simpatico policewoman to undertake random acts of promiscuous seduction and a wealthy dowager to kill off sex-crime perpetrators. Tengo gets tangled in a scheme to lure Fuka-Eri’s early-childhood tormentors to light. The two plotlines, and two characters, come together in a love-story convergence set in motion by their mutual investigation of a strange, remote cult.
And yet for all of its plotting flourishes, 1Q84 reads, paragraph-to-paragraph, as some of Murakami’s weakest writing in years. Obvious things are overexplained. (“If we're through choosing, we'd better close the menus,” Aomame at one point instructs. “Otherwise the waiter will never come.”) Figurative language is often forced. (“Little children might pee in their pants, the impact of her frown was so powerful,” goes one description.) And when the book’s frenetically evolving plot requires explanation, as if often does, much of the crucial data is simply dropped into the mouths of characters:
“You know about the Takashima Academy, don’t you?”
“In general,” Tengo said. “It’s organized like a commune. They live a completely communal lifestyle and support themselves by farming. Dairy farming, too, on a national scale. They don’t believe in personal property and own everything collectively.”
Without the youthful first-person filter of books like Norwegian Wood, the limitations in Murakami’s style start to show through. Many characters take on caricaturish hues—a private detective is smarmy and perpetually smoking; a professor wears nerd glasses and a frumpy sweater—and express their inner lives through outré pantomime. When Aomame comes to realize that the 1Q84 world she’s living in doesn’t entirely match the world she knows, her first response is to grimace “hugely,” stretching every face muscle “as far as it would go”—a signature gesture that is easier to imagine from a chimpanzee than from an actual human. Elsewhere, as in Murakami’s description of Tengo’s rapport with his married lover, these off-the-mark character portraits nudge the story in bizarre directions: