4/5
Singulars Without Plurals.
First things first people, let's get down to the singulars of Haruki Murakami's latest classic collection of compelling short stories ('First Person Singular'). All the lonely people, drifting through Tokyo and the rest of this land as rising sun turns to neon, lost in translation. The kind of hearts you see beating between backstreet bars and midnight diners for their Tokyo stories. The soul of this city. Dressed up like a yukata, but shrouded in the suited shadows of a salary man's uniform. Drowning in sake and regret. Down on their pachinko slot luck. But still so atmospheric and beautiful like the purple or orange sunsets here that remind you of sakura season in all its cherry blossom and still give you hope for the momiji-gari of a red Autumn they hope will never leave. Showing in a fleeting moment and perfect poignancy that there may be darkness to come once the day is done, but still a bright one will follow the light of a brand new sunrise. There's the cat that doesn't get the 'Cream' on a Prince song named somber affair that turns anxiety into a meditating cure to all those ills in a world as stressful as Shibuya crossing at six. Not an actual cat...that one was abandoned on another short story you can find in the legendary magazine 'The New Yorker' were a couple of these tall tales originated from in type. Have you ever been stood up for a date? Yeah...we all have. But imagine being stood up for a concert invitation after ascending the mountains of Kobe to find a bolt on the door like a 'Coach Carter' gym. Talk about performing solo. Did he get the wrong time like when former NBA young gun OJ Mayo asked the late, great Bryant who was named after the same Japanese city after his pops Joe 'Jellybean' (I see a running food metaphor...and I'm hungry) if he could practice with him? "Sure meet me at 3", 24 replied. Mayo waited at 3PM for hours the next day. No garnish to the Mamba's promise. He called him all mad when he finally gave up the ghost. "Where were you?" "Where was I? Where were you?" The Hall of Famer replied. "I was waiting for you. I was there. Right on time...3AM!"
You think I meander too much into my sportswriting gig? Just you wait. 'On A Stone Pillow' Murakami lyrically laments a lost girl who calls his narrator by another name as the love they make tries to take her higher, or to the past paradise of a love gone with the wind. Leaving her as dead as a head resting on a stone pillow waiting for the other shoe to drop in an execution gavel to a heart that's already stopped beating so long ago it felt like the stone age. Is it insomnia were faithless you can't get no sleep? Or is it a fever dream that brings you to a bar that has 'Charlie Parker Play(ing) Bossa Nova'? Are you as high as a Bird? Or having the same thing Jack Nicholson was in 'The Shining' as the spirit of that iconic Kubrick from King bar sobers the mind? You be the judge here, like who is a character, or who is stranger than fiction, first person Haruki. With this ode to one of jazz music's greatest, playing like a fictional, but spiritual college newspaper album review of a record that didn't even exist, forget the cutting-room floor. Or did it? Nostalgia nuances see a schoolboy crush run past our half-way narrator in uniform with the fact that he never ever saw her again 'With The Beatles' for a man as muse obsessed with the Fab Four as his country (I mean check the 'Rubber Soul' of his signature classic. And when it comes to 'Men Without Women' like Oscar nominated Steven Yeun 'Burning', I want to turn his short 'Drive Mr Car' into a movie starring Hiroyuki Sanada at the Park Hyatt...hey a dreamer that made it here can dream on). Clutching John, Paul, George and Ringo in monochrome under her arm and what could have been. As a life of lust, death and more stood up symbolism permeates an awkward family room wait with the brother of a lover. This and the fellow New Yorker piece 'Confessions Of A Shinagawa Monkey' at a hotel room mini-bar after some too close for comfort hot spring steaming are the highlights of this cohesive collections set. Even if I couldn't get the monkey from the PG Tips advert (the Johnny Vegas one my fellow Brits) out my head...I've done worse when picturing characters. This monkey does not mind his business and you'll go ape s### at his sin. You may even shed a tear at the tragic conclusion to this chapter, but will it be for the primate or some other mate?
'Carnaval' doesn't exactly keep the party going like you think it would as Murakami's narrator debates classical music and the "ugly" girl he befriends and deems a F*. Although once you get behind the proposal of the ring on her finger, one of the most complex plots of 'First Person' will linger. 'The Yakult Swallows Poetry Collection' will remedy all this darkness with some light-hearted couplets and prose for a team that may be in more despair than the narrators of the other short stories. Although Haruki Murakami admitting this one is him and how his self-published poetry collection from the diamond remains one of his most sought after and high-priced bookshelf finds. Rounding the bases the man who loves baseball and decided to become a novelist at 29 after a run were ball hit bat in a light bulb moment click brings us home with no foul balls. But how about the last curve thrown for the story this book is named after? 'First Person Singular' ends like a descent into hell with a suit and tie and apparition chasing a vodka gimlet in a world were we'd choose one last shot over a last meal. 'Til death do us part. Leaving us with much more than a bitter taste, but so many questions wanting more. This 'First Person Singular' is curtain call concluded perfectly with 'First Person Singular', as the 'Norwegian Wood' man continues his hot streak since the 'Wind' took his 'Pinball' away to the tune of 22 novels like 'Kafka On The Shore' (thanks, sis), 'South Of The Border, West Of The Sun' and the marathon memoir of 'What I Talk About When I Talk About Running' (catch up to it). All in his singular, signature style mixing meataphysic other worlds of dreams too real to wake. With a bruised soul, aching loneliness, chased with explicitly blue beauty in sexuality. The Japanese master who can pen sprawling epics like the Orwellian '1Q84' trilogy and the last full length 'Killing Commendatore' (thanks, Bec), or short stories like this hasn't haunted our loneliness quite like this or since the days of 'Men Without Women'. A friend from back home like the one who told me you wait to turn to the photos in autobiography books when you've read and earnt them said he waits to find each Murakami book he reads by chance, so he can enjoy Haruki's work gently throughout his life with no rush. Instead of having nothing left. It's a romantic notion I've adopted and since moving to Japan two years ago I've found seven. But I couldn't wait for this one. Right now to join a Murakami cafe, there's a library and Tokyo and of course Murakami Radio that has inspired a latest Uniqlo clothing collection curated by Haruki himself (you best believe I copped a few tops). But nothing right now is more personal than this first singular. Just like you should 'Dance, Dance, Dance' with your 'Sputnik Sweetheart' it's time to read, read, read all about it. TIM DAVID HARVEY.
Further Reading: 'Men Without Women', 'Desire', 'Killing Commendatore'.
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