I’ve always been lucky in a sense that the first time I read a book by Haruki Murakami, I had a wealth of his backlist to turn to when I was inevitably craving more. When I first plunged in to The Wind Up Bird Chronicle, I had no idea that when I’d started the first page, I’d be reading possibly one of the most important books of my life and was setting myself up for a colossal literary journey to discover one of my favourite living authors. Immediately, I devoured Norwegian Wood and tore my way through his shorter stories. More interestingly, I got to experience the evolution in his work, a shift in style, initially quite subtly in Kafka on the Shore and eventually full-blown in After Dark and 1Q84. At this point his writings had become more ethereal, often more surreal and abstract, taking on more outward ideas, which controversially may have thrown off some of his core readership.
Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage managed to achieve the astonishing feat of selling over 1 million copies when it was released in Japan last year and for something that had garnered that much attention and was that so eagerly anticipated, it was always going to be subject to mixed opinions at the very least. Before I started Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki, I was wondering where things could go next. What changes were in store and how much would remain the same? In the end, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage is a wholly satisfying, beautiful blend of the old and new. Everything I have come to love about Murakami and his work flourishes at some point here in glorious fashion.
Like Murakami’s “newer” works, the story is told entirely in the 3rd person however, instead telling the tale from multiple perspectives, it chooses to focus on its titular character for the entire narrative. Dissimilarly, the piece takes on a much more grounded role, choosing to take on much more real scenarios as opposed to the dream-like ‘mystic realism’ sequences used in some of his more iconic works. In this respect, it feels a lot more like his “older” achievements, sharing much more in common with South of the Border, West of the Sun than say, 1Q84. The advantage of this blend 'new' style and return to his 'old' roots, I felt, allowed me to empathise with the novel’s lead so much more, finding myself making deeper emotional connections despite the book not being written in the 1st person.
This brings us to our lead, Tsukuru Tazaki and his four friends, each characterized by having colours in their names. Red, Blue, Black and White, Tsukuru is the only one without colour, and as the product of much jest from his friends, earns him the title of ‘colorless.’ Tsukuru has always felt this title to be appropriate, often remarking at how he feels like an empty vessel with nothing much to give and nothing particularly distinct about his appearance or personality, despite often being told otherwise. ‘Tsukuru’ itself means to 'make' or 'create' in Japanese, a fitting moniker for our protagonist who aspires, and goes on to build train stations for a living. He often spends time in stations (a unique fascination he’s held from his youth) marvelling at the culmination of both order and chaos and the subtle systems in which they are controlled and harnessed. At a point where the five seem practically inseparable, chaos is exactly what Tsukuru's life hurls in to when he is greeted with the news that his friends no longer want anything to do with him, with no explanation as to why. Suddenly his entire existence, formerly of ‘orderly, harmonious community’ is plunged in to darkness as he battles with why his friends should want to savage their ties so brutally.
Similarly to Murakami’s previous work in The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and Norwegian Wood, Colorless Tsukuru plays out like a mystery with both readers and the lead character unaware of their supposed wrong-doing thus the tale becomes a sprawling investigation to get to the bottom of things. For the first time in a while I found myself reading a Murakami book where I couldn’t help but turn the page. Time drifted, meals were missed and I held a complete disregard to the page numbers as I felt I was digging closer and closer towards conclusion. Murakami’s tendency for unresolved plot lines as always left me perplexed by the end but that feeling gently subsided to general acceptance and satisfaction (although I can understand why any new readers may be irked by this). Much to my delight though, this was probably one of Murakami’s most philosophical and profound works to date; a tale dealing with youthful alienation, loss, self-identity and was in many ways quite reminiscent of Franz Kafka, which he has referenced many times before (see Kafka on the Shore). What I felt in the end was the very essence of what I love about Murakami, what I could never be able to explain in words except that it was ‘Murakami.’ Because of this, I found Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage to be moving, thoughtful and overall resoundingly successful, doing what all good books do when I’ve finished them, leaving me feeling changed from what I was before reading them. I closed the book smiling, feeling like I was invited back in to Murakami’s world with no desire to ever leave. And why would I? It’s so good to be back.
