Murakami certainly has some talent. I read this book in three days, putting it down only when absolutely necessary. But I have to say. It wasn't my favorite book, nor was it really satisfying. Okay so I won't sit here and tell you it was a bad book, because then I would be lying. It wasn't bad, in fact it was rather good and really had me hooked. Until the end. Each character has his or her own little story taking place at the same time and place as the other characters. The entire book leads you to think that these stories are going to come together at the end to answer all of your big questions. These stories however, don't do anything of the sort. Each one ends (or doesn't end) almost completely unrelated to the next. It was because I thought they would come together that I feel dissatisfied. Perhaps had I known that it was a collection of somewhat related stories from the very beginning I would have been much better off in the end.
This doesn't mean I'm not going to give more of Murakami's books a go. In fact I'm looking forward to reading another, hoping to have a completely different experience with it. But for now as I begin my next book, I hope it is one, unlike the last two that doesn't have a slightly disappointing ending. Maybe I'm being to critical or expecting to much. Or maybe this is a good thing. For not every book read is going to become my favorite book or be the best book I've ever read. Every book also doesn't have to have a happy ending. A happily ever after. Although I was left with the bitter taste of displeasure about the ending of the story, the rest of the book was quite imaginative. It is definitely fiction but lingers on the line of crazy out there alien fiction stories and the everyday normal fiction. It is this uncertainty that I loved about the book.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
After Dark 9.23.08
As I mentioned in my last post, Murakami writes with a very interesting perspective. He really connects with the audience by using the eye or camera as his way of telling the story. I feel as if he is speaking to me directly and telling me what to look for and how to look at it when reading the story. It is this connection that leads me to believe that his relationship with the reader is a friendly one.
Of the six or so characters that this book revolves around, about four or five of them could be considered the main characters. Each one has a different story but all of their stories come together to form the overall story. As you watch each story come together, Murakami writes this in a relaxed and easy to navigate manner. This is also what leads me to believe that he wants the readers to relate to the characters and connect to their problems. Each chapter or rather time check completely brings you into the situation of the night. The combination of the description of our eyes and where they are looking with these time checks and details of the characters truly makes one feel as if they are part of the story. Murakami is certainly wanting the reader to feel included and therefore friendly but the overall relationship might have been intended to be more of a creepy passer-by or fly on the wall observing a strange situation.
Of the six or so characters that this book revolves around, about four or five of them could be considered the main characters. Each one has a different story but all of their stories come together to form the overall story. As you watch each story come together, Murakami writes this in a relaxed and easy to navigate manner. This is also what leads me to believe that he wants the readers to relate to the characters and connect to their problems. Each chapter or rather time check completely brings you into the situation of the night. The combination of the description of our eyes and where they are looking with these time checks and details of the characters truly makes one feel as if they are part of the story. Murakami is certainly wanting the reader to feel included and therefore friendly but the overall relationship might have been intended to be more of a creepy passer-by or fly on the wall observing a strange situation.
Monday, September 22, 2008
After Dark 9.22.08
Haruki Murakami
After Dark
2007
Well I decided to read my first Murakami book yesterday. Both of my parents have always been a fan of his, especially my dad. He has read just about every book of his so I've always had them in my grasp but for some reason have never bothered to pick one up. So let me just say how glad I am that I did. This book is one of those that is impossible to put down. I started it just yesterday and am already about 3/4 into it. Whenever I read a book like this one, where I take it with me everywhere I go using any spare second to read, I often wonder why it is so good. When pondering this about After Dark I decided the reason for its incredible ability to keep me connected is because of the way Murakami writes. The story is told as if the reader is a film director deciding how he wants to film the movie; what camera angles would get the best shot. Taking place in Tokyo during the magical time of midnight till dawn, the first page has you visualizing the city from a bird's eye view and then slowly zooming in on the details of the story. Each chapter is time progressing through the night and the scene is set first with the location of the our imaginary camera or rather as he puts it, eyes. The feeling is as if we are in the room with the characters but they can't see us. We can't interact with them but we can watch everything they do. Our eyes follow the lives of two opposite sisters, one, a beautiful model since middle school, who is always mysteriously sleeping and the other who is out at all night meeting a crew of interesting people. Each sister's story is equally interesting with its own strange twist to it.
After Dark
2007
Well I decided to read my first Murakami book yesterday. Both of my parents have always been a fan of his, especially my dad. He has read just about every book of his so I've always had them in my grasp but for some reason have never bothered to pick one up. So let me just say how glad I am that I did. This book is one of those that is impossible to put down. I started it just yesterday and am already about 3/4 into it. Whenever I read a book like this one, where I take it with me everywhere I go using any spare second to read, I often wonder why it is so good. When pondering this about After Dark I decided the reason for its incredible ability to keep me connected is because of the way Murakami writes. The story is told as if the reader is a film director deciding how he wants to film the movie; what camera angles would get the best shot. Taking place in Tokyo during the magical time of midnight till dawn, the first page has you visualizing the city from a bird's eye view and then slowly zooming in on the details of the story. Each chapter is time progressing through the night and the scene is set first with the location of the our imaginary camera or rather as he puts it, eyes. The feeling is as if we are in the room with the characters but they can't see us. We can't interact with them but we can watch everything they do. Our eyes follow the lives of two opposite sisters, one, a beautiful model since middle school, who is always mysteriously sleeping and the other who is out at all night meeting a crew of interesting people. Each sister's story is equally interesting with its own strange twist to it.
The Diving Bell and The Butterfly 9.22.08
Alas. I have finished reading the "memoir of life in death" as stated in the cover page. It took me a little while longer to finish it then I had anticipated, but that is besides the point for now I am done and plenty pleased.
The book definitely came to a satisfactory closure for me, however the closure did not happen until the very last chapter. I still enjoyed the ending because Dominique has finally come to accept his new life. His first summer spent in the hospital is over and he has made progress with his recovery. He can hum a short four line song about kangaroos and has written page after page for his book over the past two months. Although the ending is a bit abrupt, what can you do but enjoy the story presented. Dominique's death was abrupt, thankfully putting him out of his misery but at the same time, saddening. I finished the story, glad that it was over but yet a certain sadness hangs over me because of all my unanswered questions and "what if" thoughts. I've wondered if he made anymore progress in his recovery after the book ends but before his death..this I'm sure I could research but it would have been nice if there was an epilogue written by the translator or something. But I guess reading an epilogue on his death and all that he did/did not get to accomplish would be upsetting. I also would have liked to have a better concept of time during the book. Each chapter is more of a story than a chapter in a book, coming from different times in his life. However everything not included or the strange writing styles found in this book are what make the book what it is. Even now, after I have finished the book and seen the movie I can't get over the foundation of the story. A man with one eye as his only way of communication, his only moving body part bewilders me.
The book definitely came to a satisfactory closure for me, however the closure did not happen until the very last chapter. I still enjoyed the ending because Dominique has finally come to accept his new life. His first summer spent in the hospital is over and he has made progress with his recovery. He can hum a short four line song about kangaroos and has written page after page for his book over the past two months. Although the ending is a bit abrupt, what can you do but enjoy the story presented. Dominique's death was abrupt, thankfully putting him out of his misery but at the same time, saddening. I finished the story, glad that it was over but yet a certain sadness hangs over me because of all my unanswered questions and "what if" thoughts. I've wondered if he made anymore progress in his recovery after the book ends but before his death..this I'm sure I could research but it would have been nice if there was an epilogue written by the translator or something. But I guess reading an epilogue on his death and all that he did/did not get to accomplish would be upsetting. I also would have liked to have a better concept of time during the book. Each chapter is more of a story than a chapter in a book, coming from different times in his life. However everything not included or the strange writing styles found in this book are what make the book what it is. Even now, after I have finished the book and seen the movie I can't get over the foundation of the story. A man with one eye as his only way of communication, his only moving body part bewilders me.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
The Diving Bell and The Butterfly 9.15.08
Of the several different anecdotes that make up the chapters of this book, I have a few that I really like, from his humorous interpretation of the other patients at the hospital to his gratitude towards his "guardian angel" or speech therapist who brings him back into the world with a communication code; my favorite chapter is one called My Lucky Day. It actually isn't a cheery or happy story of luck. In fact it is just the opposite. Dominique's humor and sarcasm really shows through in this passage when he retells the story of one morning when everything goes wrong. His feeding machine has broken, alerting anyone around (himself) with a constant beep beep beep that it needs fixing, his eyelashes are ticking his pupil and he has wet himself are all components to his awful morning. While waiting for a nurse to come he hums to himself the song, "Don't you fret, baby, it'll be all right". The arrival of the nurse brings hope to the reader's mind, that finally he will be put out of his misery, when instead, the dreaded "lucky" moment happens.
"Automatically, she turns on the TV. A commercial, with a personal computer spelling out the question: "Were you born lucky?"
"Automatically, she turns on the TV. A commercial, with a personal computer spelling out the question: "Were you born lucky?"
The Diving Bell and The Butterfly 9.15.08
It's about time I got back on board with this journal business. Yes, I am still reading The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, or rather I am starting it back up. I took an unintentional break from it but I'm back.
As you may know from reading my other posts about this book, the author's goal of writing this story is to share his experiences before and after being diagnosed with locked-in syndrome. Unlike many books I have read in the past, Dominique states his purpose in the first four pages of the book. With a quick summary of what has happened to him to leave him in this condition, he launches into a brief but explanatory explanation of his purpose.
"My main task now is to compose the first of these bedridden travel notes so that I shall be ready when my publisher's emissary arrives to take my dictation, letter by letter."
This is then followed by his pitiful thoughts of obsessing over every sentence, deleting words, the right adjectives, and memorizing the text word for word, paragraph by paragraph so that his story may be ready and told correctly. From this point on, the story doesn't talk about his purpose but rather is a series of anecdotes of his time in the hospital and his time before the accident. With each chapter, Dominique's life is revealed, achieving his purpose with the book. The chapter's follow a chronological order, for the most part, starting with his admittance to the hospital to his last moments in the hospital, but occasionally jumps back to a memory from the week before or 5 years before. Most of time the chapters don't transition well, however this style works because each chapter is a new story. Each short story is personal and therefore his purpose is achieved by informing the reader, piece by piece of his life's experiences.
As you may know from reading my other posts about this book, the author's goal of writing this story is to share his experiences before and after being diagnosed with locked-in syndrome. Unlike many books I have read in the past, Dominique states his purpose in the first four pages of the book. With a quick summary of what has happened to him to leave him in this condition, he launches into a brief but explanatory explanation of his purpose.
"My main task now is to compose the first of these bedridden travel notes so that I shall be ready when my publisher's emissary arrives to take my dictation, letter by letter."
This is then followed by his pitiful thoughts of obsessing over every sentence, deleting words, the right adjectives, and memorizing the text word for word, paragraph by paragraph so that his story may be ready and told correctly. From this point on, the story doesn't talk about his purpose but rather is a series of anecdotes of his time in the hospital and his time before the accident. With each chapter, Dominique's life is revealed, achieving his purpose with the book. The chapter's follow a chronological order, for the most part, starting with his admittance to the hospital to his last moments in the hospital, but occasionally jumps back to a memory from the week before or 5 years before. Most of time the chapters don't transition well, however this style works because each chapter is a new story. Each short story is personal and therefore his purpose is achieved by informing the reader, piece by piece of his life's experiences.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
the world is alive now, in AND outside our home
Whether or not you have taken a mission trip to a third world country, you probably know someone who has. Plenty of people take these trips; unfortunately, I think that the right intentions can get lost somewhere between the comforting American boarding gates and hearing foreign gibberish going through immigration in your destined country. This ignorance of entering a new country thankfully did not become the ringleader during my mission trip to Honduras. I went to Honduras in late July and honestly, didn't really know what to expect. I did know to expect a good experience; I could practice my Spanish and travel to a new country. I didn't know that meeting some amazing people, not only within my church group but the people of Honduras, experiencing many new things and my favorite, and connecting with the adults and children who had so much less then me would all contribute greatly to the experience. From the moment we touched ground at the San Pedro Sula airport, it became apparent of the different lifestyles.
The program we took the mission trip with had a ranch in Northeastern Honduras where we stayed. They kept the ranch up and it had a nice rustic feel to it. However compared to the other small towns and villages around the ranch, it could have been a Ritz Carlton. From this ranch we would daily take a precarious journey down dusty, pot-hole filled dirt roads to our villages to work. Our village, La Higuera, a small, undeveloped village had about forty children and perhaps twenty to thirty adults. We did all kinds of work at the village from constructing a house from scratch to pouring concrete floors and mudding walls. The work I did, however, didn’t require much hard labor, at least not of the muscles.
The women of our group worked in the village's school, or rather small pavilion, hosting a laid back vacation bible school. Almost every child from the village would come to the school and lead by us, these strange foreigners. They put me in a state of awe the entire week, because of their trust in us and ability to have joy in the simplest things we give them. What could never please an American child pleased not only these children but also entertained the women and some men of the village. All week, brown bag sheep puppets, glittery king's crowns and plastic beaded necklaces became daily sights throughout the village. If not on the children, then in the homes themselves, like prized possessions waiting their turn at show and tell. The children also liked to show off, constantly coming up to you, showing you their latest piece of artwork or rambling off in Spanish about who knows what.
Speaking to the adults of the villages in Spanish became a difficult task for me, straining my summer vacationed brain to remember every little ounce of the language I could muster. I hated to sound like a fool but my broken Spanish didn't matter to them. The very fact that I even attempted to communicate with them impressed them. The feeling I got when I spoke successfully quickly became indescribable, regardless of to whom I spoke to. The adults would get really into the conversation, trying to understand my Spanish and perhaps also learn a little English. The children on the other hand had no concept of our lack of language skills and would just go off hoping you could catch on. Some of my favorite conversations I had with the little ones, once we got to the point of actually having a conversation, of course. They helped me with my Spanish and seemed very mature even though most of them that I talked must have been ten years old or younger. Although I had moments of utter helplessness, I remember the entire trip as an eye opening experience, but one that I still struggle to explain because of the constant indescribable state I found myself in all week because of La Higuera’s people.
The program we took the mission trip with had a ranch in Northeastern Honduras where we stayed. They kept the ranch up and it had a nice rustic feel to it. However compared to the other small towns and villages around the ranch, it could have been a Ritz Carlton. From this ranch we would daily take a precarious journey down dusty, pot-hole filled dirt roads to our villages to work. Our village, La Higuera, a small, undeveloped village had about forty children and perhaps twenty to thirty adults. We did all kinds of work at the village from constructing a house from scratch to pouring concrete floors and mudding walls. The work I did, however, didn’t require much hard labor, at least not of the muscles.
The women of our group worked in the village's school, or rather small pavilion, hosting a laid back vacation bible school. Almost every child from the village would come to the school and lead by us, these strange foreigners. They put me in a state of awe the entire week, because of their trust in us and ability to have joy in the simplest things we give them. What could never please an American child pleased not only these children but also entertained the women and some men of the village. All week, brown bag sheep puppets, glittery king's crowns and plastic beaded necklaces became daily sights throughout the village. If not on the children, then in the homes themselves, like prized possessions waiting their turn at show and tell. The children also liked to show off, constantly coming up to you, showing you their latest piece of artwork or rambling off in Spanish about who knows what.
Speaking to the adults of the villages in Spanish became a difficult task for me, straining my summer vacationed brain to remember every little ounce of the language I could muster. I hated to sound like a fool but my broken Spanish didn't matter to them. The very fact that I even attempted to communicate with them impressed them. The feeling I got when I spoke successfully quickly became indescribable, regardless of to whom I spoke to. The adults would get really into the conversation, trying to understand my Spanish and perhaps also learn a little English. The children on the other hand had no concept of our lack of language skills and would just go off hoping you could catch on. Some of my favorite conversations I had with the little ones, once we got to the point of actually having a conversation, of course. They helped me with my Spanish and seemed very mature even though most of them that I talked must have been ten years old or younger. Although I had moments of utter helplessness, I remember the entire trip as an eye opening experience, but one that I still struggle to explain because of the constant indescribable state I found myself in all week because of La Higuera’s people.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
the world is alive now, in AND outside our home
(Alright so let me start this off with a little disclaimer; I know that writing my personal narrative about the time I went on a mission trip to a third world country seems so, oh you know. Cliché. Typical. Taking the easy way out. But seriously, it was an amazing experience. However I am a little concerned I won't be able to fully explain myself and the trip because it was such an Experience. But I'll do what I can so bare with me.)
Whether or not you have taken a mission trip to a third world country ,the chances are that you at least know someone who has. Plenty of people take these trips; unfortunately, I think that the right intentions can get lost somewhere between the boarding gates in the United States and going through immigration in your destined country. I have witnessed this unfortunate incident when I traveled to Honduras this past summer with my church. Luckily, no one from our group lost their common sense or became an obnoxious American with great, unrealistic intentions to solve all of Honduras' problems. We did however meet plenty of groups during our travels from other churches who believed they were the answer to all of the problems. With a quick flash of their cameras, a butchered Ho-la to every Honduran in sight and a wheel of their overly large suitcases they went off to save the country in matching "Honduras Mission Trip 2008" t-shirts.
This unrealistic and chauvinistic viewpoint thankfully did not become the ringleader during my mission trip to Honduras. I went to Honduras in late July and honestly, didn't really know what to expect. I knew that it was going to be a good experience; I could practice my Spanish and travel to a new country. What I didn't know was that I was going to meet some amazing people, not only within my church group but the people of Honduras, experience many new things, and my favorite, connect with the adults and children who had so much less then me,but that was never an issue. From the moment we touched ground at the San Pedro Sula airport, the difference in lifestyles was prevalent.
The program we took the mission trip with had a ranch in Northeastern Honduras where we stayed. The ranch was well kept and had a nice rustic feel to it. However compared to the other small towns and villages around the ranch, it could similar to a Ritz Carlton. From this ranch we would daily take a precarious journey down dusty, pot-hole filled dirt roads to our villages to work. Our village, La Higuera, was a small, very undeveloped village with about forty children and perhaps twenty to thirty adults. We did all kinds of work at the village from constructing a house from scratch to pouring concrete floors and mudding walls. The work I did however wasn't hard labor, of the muscles at least.
The women of our group worked in the village's school, which was more of a tiny pavilion, hosting a laid back vacation bible school. Almost every child from the village would come to the school to be under watch by us, these strange foreigners. They put me in a state of awe the entire week, because of their trust in us and ability to have joy in the simplest things we give them. What would never be able to please an American child pleased not only these children but also entertained the women and some men of the village. All week, brown bag sheep puppets, glittery king's crowns and plastic beaded necklaces would be seen throughout the village. If not on the children, then in the homes themselves like prized possessions to be shown off. The children also weren't afraid to show off, constantly coming up to you, showing you their latest piece of artwork or rambling off in Spanish about who knows what.
Speaking to the adults of the villages in Spanish was always a task for me, straining my summer vacationed brain to remember every little ounce of the language I could muster. I hated to sound like a fool but my broken Spanish didn't matter to them. The very fact that I even attempted to communicate with them impressed them.The feeling I got when I spoke successfully quickly became indescribable, regardless if it was to a child or an adult. The adults would get really into the conversation, trying to understand my Spanish and perhaps also learn a little English. The children on the other hand had no concept of our lack of language skills and would just go off hoping you could catch on. Some of my favorite conversations were with the little ones, once we got to the point of actually having a conversation, of course. Even though I was talking to people under the age of ten, they seemed much more mature and still helped me with my Spanish. Although I had moments of utter helplessness, the entire trip was an eye opening experience, one that I still struggle to explain because of the constant indescribable state I was in when around the people of La Higuera.
Ps. to whom ever is reading/commenting/editing this: I apologize for the length. It will get shorten, don't worry!
Whether or not you have taken a mission trip to a third world country ,the chances are that you at least know someone who has. Plenty of people take these trips; unfortunately, I think that the right intentions can get lost somewhere between the boarding gates in the United States and going through immigration in your destined country. I have witnessed this unfortunate incident when I traveled to Honduras this past summer with my church. Luckily, no one from our group lost their common sense or became an obnoxious American with great, unrealistic intentions to solve all of Honduras' problems. We did however meet plenty of groups during our travels from other churches who believed they were the answer to all of the problems. With a quick flash of their cameras, a butchered Ho-la to every Honduran in sight and a wheel of their overly large suitcases they went off to save the country in matching "Honduras Mission Trip 2008" t-shirts.
This unrealistic and chauvinistic viewpoint thankfully did not become the ringleader during my mission trip to Honduras. I went to Honduras in late July and honestly, didn't really know what to expect. I knew that it was going to be a good experience; I could practice my Spanish and travel to a new country. What I didn't know was that I was going to meet some amazing people, not only within my church group but the people of Honduras, experience many new things, and my favorite, connect with the adults and children who had so much less then me,but that was never an issue. From the moment we touched ground at the San Pedro Sula airport, the difference in lifestyles was prevalent.
The program we took the mission trip with had a ranch in Northeastern Honduras where we stayed. The ranch was well kept and had a nice rustic feel to it. However compared to the other small towns and villages around the ranch, it could similar to a Ritz Carlton. From this ranch we would daily take a precarious journey down dusty, pot-hole filled dirt roads to our villages to work. Our village, La Higuera, was a small, very undeveloped village with about forty children and perhaps twenty to thirty adults. We did all kinds of work at the village from constructing a house from scratch to pouring concrete floors and mudding walls. The work I did however wasn't hard labor, of the muscles at least.
The women of our group worked in the village's school, which was more of a tiny pavilion, hosting a laid back vacation bible school. Almost every child from the village would come to the school to be under watch by us, these strange foreigners. They put me in a state of awe the entire week, because of their trust in us and ability to have joy in the simplest things we give them. What would never be able to please an American child pleased not only these children but also entertained the women and some men of the village. All week, brown bag sheep puppets, glittery king's crowns and plastic beaded necklaces would be seen throughout the village. If not on the children, then in the homes themselves like prized possessions to be shown off. The children also weren't afraid to show off, constantly coming up to you, showing you their latest piece of artwork or rambling off in Spanish about who knows what.
Speaking to the adults of the villages in Spanish was always a task for me, straining my summer vacationed brain to remember every little ounce of the language I could muster. I hated to sound like a fool but my broken Spanish didn't matter to them. The very fact that I even attempted to communicate with them impressed them.The feeling I got when I spoke successfully quickly became indescribable, regardless if it was to a child or an adult. The adults would get really into the conversation, trying to understand my Spanish and perhaps also learn a little English. The children on the other hand had no concept of our lack of language skills and would just go off hoping you could catch on. Some of my favorite conversations were with the little ones, once we got to the point of actually having a conversation, of course. Even though I was talking to people under the age of ten, they seemed much more mature and still helped me with my Spanish. Although I had moments of utter helplessness, the entire trip was an eye opening experience, one that I still struggle to explain because of the constant indescribable state I was in when around the people of La Higuera.
Ps. to whom ever is reading/commenting/editing this: I apologize for the length. It will get shorten, don't worry!
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