By Haruki Murakami
Born in 1951 in an prosperous Tokyo suburb, Hajime—beginning in Japanese—has arrived at center age in need of for nearly not anything. The postwar years have introduced him a very good marriage, daughters, and an enviable occupation because the owner of 2 jazz golf equipment. but a nagging feel of inauthenticity approximately his luck threatens Hajime’s happiness. And a boyhood reminiscence of a sensible, lonely lady named Shimamoto clouds his center.
In South of the Border, West of the Sun, the straightforward arc of a man’s life—with its attendant rhythms of luck and disappointment—becomes the beautiful literary terrain of Haruki Murakami’s so much haunting paintings. whilst Shimamoto exhibits up one wet evening, now a wide ranging attractiveness with a mystery from which she is not able to flee, the fault strains of doubt in Hajime’s quotidian lifestyles start to collapse. And the main points of stolen moments previous and present—a Nat King Cole melody, a face pressed opposed to a window, a handful of ashes drifting downriver to the sea—threaten to undo him thoroughly. wealthy, mysterious, quietly wonderful, South of the Border, West of the Sun is Haruki Murakami’s wisest and so much compelling paintings.
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Additional resources for South of the Border, West of the Sun: A Novel
In the normal course of events we would have been wrapped up in our relationship, without pausing to come up for air, for a few months, and then one of us would have drifted away. The reason being that what we were doing was a necessary, natural act one allowing no room for doubt. From the first, there was no possibility that love, guilt, or thoughts of the future would enter in. So if the relationship hadn’t been discovered (not to have been found out seems pretty unrealistic, so totally wrapped up was I in having sex with her), Izumi and I might have continued for some time as we had, boyfriend and girlfriend.
I gave the same answer to Shimamoto. She gazed at me steadily as I talked. Something about her expression pulled people in. It was as if–this is something I thought of only later, of course–she were gently peeling back one layer after another that covered a person’s heart, a very sensual feeling. Her lips changed ever so slightly with each change in her expression, and I could catch a glimpse deep within her eyes of a faint light, like a tiny candle flickering in the dark, narrow room. “I think I understand what you mean,” she said in a mature, quiet voice.
With a start, I realized she’d been crying for some time. I had no idea what to say, so I sat waiting for her to continue. “You prefer to think things over all by yourself, and you don’t like people peeking inside your head. Maybe that’s because you’re an only child. You’re used to thinking and acting alone. ” She shook her head. “And that makes me afraid. ” Only child. I hadn’t heard those words in a long while. In elementary school the words had hurt me. But Izumi was using them in a different sense.