‘First Person Singular’ by Haruki Murakami (Review)

While I’ve been enjoying Haruki Murakami’s writing for decades now, my admiration for the writer has certainly cooled a little after a few less-than-stellar books, and I don’t really rush to source and review his new releases anymore.  However, that’s not to say that I wasn’t looking forward to getting around to the latest book, and after a random purchase of the paperback earlier this year, I allowed myself the luxury of a review-free read before trying it again a couple of months later.  So, is this vintage Murakami or more strange ideas gone badly wrong?  Somewhere in the middle, of course – for more details, step this way…

*****
First Person Singular (translated by Philip Gabriel) is a collection of eight stories first published in Japan back in 2020, and those with a keen eye for freebies may have already tried a few of them, as several have appeared at The New Yorker and elsewhere.  It’s a lovely collection of pieces, and anyone who enjoys the Murakami style, ably recreated (or perhaps just created…) here by Gabriel, will have a great time sipping on their coffee (or whiskey) while slowly turning the page.

As was the case with Murakami’s previous collection, Men Without Women, several stories here take us back to the writer/protagonist’s youth.  The opening piece, ‘Cream’, sees a teenager lured to a non-existent concert, and while resting on a park bench afterwards, he has an encounter with an enigmatic old man talking about circles.  A more substantial variation on the theme comes via ‘With the Beatles’.  The longest story in the book is an excellent piece on nostalgia and the memories of youth, and in another teen anecdote, we’re told the story of an old flame and a visit the narrator paid to her house back in his school days.  From the first page, the nostalgic tone is set:

I think what makes me sad about the girls I knew growing old is that it forces me to admit, all over again, that my youthful dreams are gone forever.  The death of a dream can be, in a way, sadder than that of a living being.  Sometimes it all seems so unfair.
‘With the Beatles’, pp.77/8 (Vintage, 2022)

The final part of the story has the narrator meeting up again with the brother of his ex decades later, with a final twist in the tale.  It’s all masterfully done, and there are distinct shades of Norwegian Wood here, in more than one sense.

While the structure of the stories is never less than perfect, there’s always (alas) a sense that the writer has ignored the criticism of his slightly misogynistic style, and that comes across a couple of times here.  ‘On a Stone Pillow’, a story of the narrator’s one-night stand many years ago with a self-published poet, works well enough, but many readers will be put off by the writer’s description of the woman’s body.  Here Murakami comes across as objectifying in the guise of being open and candid.

However, the low point comes in ‘Carnaval’, where some readers may not make it past the opening lines:

Of all the women I’ve known until now, she was the ugliest.  But this might not be a fair way of putting it.  I’ve known lots of women whose looks were uglier.  I think I’m on safe ground, though, in saying that among the women I’ve been close with in my life – those who have put down roots in the soil of my memory – she was indeed the ugliest.  I could use a euphemism, of course, and say least beautiful in place of ugly, which should be easier for readers, especially women readers, to accept.  But I’ve decided to go with the more straightforward (and somewhat brutal) term instead here, for this captures more the essence of who she really was.
‘Carnaval’, p.165

It’s not the best way to draw your readers in, but Murakami then doubles down, trying to justify his decision by showing the unique character of the woman.  Yes, there’s a point to this character ‘trait’,  yet it’s impossible to simply ignore his views, despite the way the story unfolds.

Luckily, not everything is quite as disappointing, and one feature of First Person Singular is a number of stories that are just plain fun.  ‘Charlie Parker Plays Bossa Nova’ is a clever, light piece in which the narrator tells of a review he once wrote of an imaginary album, and the unnerving way it came back to haunt him years later.  Meanwhile, in ‘The Yakult Swallows Poetry Collection’, Murakami ingeniously uses the myth that has grown around his legendary baseball epiphany moment to craft a story that’s half Fever Pitch, half embarrassing teen poetry, with the reader treated to verse pondering inevitable defeat and outfielders’ backsides…

One of my favourite inclusions here would have to be a sequel to an earlier story, with a traveller in the mountains stumbling across a rather unusual character in the bath of his inn:

“How is the bath?” the monkey asked me.
“It’s very nice.  Thank you,” I said.  My voice reverberated densely, softly, in the steam.  My voice sounded almost mythological.  It didn’t sound like it came from me, but rather like an echo from the past returning from deep in the forest.  And that echo was… hold on a second.  What was a monkey doing here?  And why was he speaking in a human language?
‘Confessions of a Shinagawa Monkey’, p.133

Yes, it’s the return of a certain light-fingered rogue, last seen in the story ‘A Shinagawa Monkey’ (included in Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman), and over a beer or two, we get to learn more about this intriguing character.  After his initial surprise, the narrator shrugs it all off and enjoys a companionable evening with his new acquaintance – vintage Murakami, making the unusual seem commonplace.

The collection is rounded off, as was the case in Men Without Women, with a shorter piece that lends its name to the collection.  ‘First Person Singular’ has its Murakami narrator dressing up and going out for a drink alone, just because, but this impromptu outing is marred by a random encounter with a woman, one who begins to abuse him because of something he did to her friend a while back.  In a tale where we’re torn between suspecting mistaken identity or something a little more unusual, the narrator begins to doubt himself – and if you’ve been paying attention, there’s even a very clever link back to the first story in the collection…

It’s probably expecting a lot for a septuagenarian leopard to change its spots, and First Person Singular is exactly what you’d expect from a Murakami story collection, in terms of both the positives and negatives.  Still, if you go into the experience with eyes wide open, I suspect you’ll enjoy what you find, a set of finely-crafted tales heavy on nostalgia, with a fair dollop of self-deprecating humour (I could have done without the occasional aftertaste of gratuitous nudity, but I suppose you can’t have everything…).  I doubt he has another big novel in him, but I’d be happy enough to take a look at more of his stories.  Despite the occasional faux pas, First Person Singular shows that, at least in the short form, he’s still able to produce some excellent work when he’s in the mood.