I went to the snooty secondhand bookstore today with four books to sell. The clerk took one of them and returned the rest. Still, I got $2.30 which brings the total on my credit to $18.00. I’m closer to affording Haruki Murakami’s latest book, 1Q84, which sells for $30.
After the bookstore, I headed for the library with the rejected three. Why they weren’t good enough for the snooty second hand bookstore, I don’t know. I never understand their decisions and always brace for rejection as I approach the counter. These insults I suffer for Murakami.
I’ve given much thought to why I am enamored of this Japanese author’s works. There are other writers who are wonderful. Catcher in the Rye or One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest are epic journeys of a rational mind stumbling through an insane world. Samuel Beckett allows me to peep into bizarre landscapes where it’s insane to look for logic. Marquis de Sade exposes the face of madness itself. All and each offer fascinating journeys that compel the reader’s full attention.
But Haruki Murakami’s novels are stranger still in that they recognize neither madness nor the bizarre. Improbable events must be taken at face value. To trust the artist is to be invited into unimagined places where Salvador Dali’s watches are not only credible but irrefutable. Murakami’s inner space is as breathtaking as nature’s outer one for he conjures dimensions where time and space have no governance.