By Mary Imgrund

Norwegian Wood begins with a shocking revelation that Naoko does not love Toro Wantanabe, the protagonist, despite his devotion to her. By placing this information in the beginning of this 1987 novel, Haruki Murakami turns the formulaic love story plot on its head. Because this is not a soap opera, knowing whether the couple gets together is not one’s primary concern as a reader, but rather the way the relationship and the individuals caught in it grow. I usually don’t like books whose plots are driven by romantic love, but Murakami injects gritty, awkward eroticism and imperfect characters to give this book an edge. This is why I enjoyed this novel yet scoff at the Mr. Darcy’s of the world. 

The plot follows the growth of Wantanabe while he goes through college during the student riots. The riots play a small role in this book, but provide an appropriate backdrop for his escapades of love and survival. Wantanabe is a quiet, introspective young man who is struggling to find himself and his purpose while grappling with the suicide of his best friend. This is certainly a character driven plot, and because of that, the events are reduced to small gestures, whispers, and coincidental meetings.

Murikami’s treatment of mental illness seems very authentic. As Naoko reaches the point of breakdown, she is not treated as a monster, nor is her mental illness named or romanticized. She’s not a tortured artist, nor a depressed intellectual; she is simply a sick young woman trying to be well. Her treatment center is incredibly liberal in its treatment of the patients, and perhaps this is a testament to its era (the 60s and 70s), but she is able to live a fairly happy, productive life.  Her roommate, Reiko Ishida, is also portrayed in a very positive light, and though her sickness has deeper roots than that of Naoko, she eventually overcomes her fear of living in the outside world after having spent many years in the commune. Her transformation does not accompany a cure, but rather her decision to trust herself. Reiko still has her affliction. Because Murakami does not vilify these characters, he leads readers to come to know that mental illness is something one is able to cope with and live as a productive member of society.

Murakami’s treatment of women is fairly strange; I’m not sure if this is due to personal or cultural differences. The most improbable incident is the treatment of the rape of an older woman by a girl a third her age. The rapist is portrayed as a sly, experienced, deranged girl, but at 13 one would not expect her to have the physical and emotional strength to sexually abuse a grown woman.

Meanwhile, Midori Kobayashi, a classmate of Wantanabe, was ever so close to being reduced to an example of the “manic pixie dream girl” trope. Her saving grace is her ferocious anger that is sometimes irrational. Despite her bizarre quirks and attitude towards relationships, she remains to be a three-dimensional character, and dare I say charming.

The sexual scenes may at first appear to be sensational but considering that the protagonist is a young man in his late teens and early twenties, the focus is simply a reflection of his own focus. Midori, too, is proudly sexual as many young women are, but are rarely portrayed to be. She asks Wantanabe about his masturbation habits and wears short skirts without an ounce of shame. In this way, this novel is a celebration of newfound sexuality and sexual discovery.

Overall, the book was a cultural and existential experience. The way Watanabe goes through his cycles of love and heartbreak is flawed, horrible, and natural. This is not a young adult fantasy or a pulp paperback. The genius of this book is in how it confronts eroticism without approaching pornography while addressing the human’s desire to love and be loved.

Mary Imgrund is a senior English Major. For more reviews, musings, and cultural articles, check out her blog www.fennecfawn.wordpress.com