Book Review: 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami

I usually like to start my reviews with the good aspects of a book before moving on to the bad, but for 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami, the good is rather miniscule and only qualitative in comparison to the boring, brainless, repetitive nonsense of the rest of the book. All I can say is that the last 50 pages of the book were marginally better than the other 1,100 pages because something was actually happening. Oh, and Tumaru was my favorite character, but by next week, I’ll probably say, “Wait, Tumaru? Who was he?”

For context, I read the first part of this 3-part novel many years ago, and it was maybe the first book I ever DNF’d. I remember thinking the plot and eroticism were just plain weird, but that is all. I decided to give it another try, deciding that maybe I was just too young to read it the first time, and now that I am more literarily-experienced, I would have a more open mind. When I opened it up again, I was surprised that I remembered little to nothing of the plot, so every page was like reading it for the first time. But my dislike of the book remains, although I insisted to myself that I finish the book out of sheer obstinacy. It’s an insult to 1984 by George Orwell for this novel to be named after it, or to have any reference to it at all. Which is honestly just another point of confusion in regards to this novel, because the allusions to 1984 and Big Brother were so minimal and contrived.

I think the first thing I noticed about the book was how it added layers of gravity to situations that really weren’t that intense, which was more confusing than thought-provoking. For example, the first chapters describe our male protagonist, Tengo, and his literary editor discussing ghostwriting a book for publication. Granted, they weren’t being transparent about it, but at least in America, ghostwriting is generally accepted as something that happens behind the scenes. It’s not considered the most ethical of things, but it’s certainly not as taboo as Tengo and his editor make it seem. They freak out and think they are involved in a huge conspiracy that will spiral out of control and ruin their lives. Is ghostwriting considered more taboo in other cultures? Maybe it’s just my skewed perception, but I feel like in America, the most that would happen after discovering an author has an unforetold ghostwriter is disappointment, not necessarily scandal.

But as the book went on, my mind was redirected from senseless gravity to senseless nothingness. I don’t think I have ever read a book more repetitive. Every thought, every emotion, every insight a character might have had is sure to be repeated in slightly different language a few chapters later. And so much time was spent on either repetitive experiences or things that simply did not matter to the plot or to my mental acuity. They were there simply to prolong the book. I think it was supposed to prolong the tension and make you crave the ending where the two star-crossed lovers actually met. It was just lacking all the tension, or any real interest on my part because the romance was too unbelievable. And then at the end of the novel, Murakami actually wrote memory-insulting summaries of the events of the novel, as if he hadn’t spent the last few hundred pages writing the same thing over and over again with nothing actually happening. 

And what’s up with the hypersexualization of everything? I now know that the sex scenes didn’t strike me as odd the first time around because of my youth; they are genuinely badly written sex scenes and oddly misplaced sexual references that serve no obvious purpose to the plot. The straight female protagonist had a few lesbian encounters that literally served nothing for the story, and as it struck me, were written only for the gratification of a male audience—or dare I say a male author. There were multiple times in the book where it was painfully obvious that a male was trying and failing to write a genuine female character. This line in particular stood out to me: “Aomame mourned the deaths of these two friends deeply. […] And she mourned their lovely breasts—breasts that had vanished without a trace.” I don’t think females would ever reduce another woman to their breasts like that, but Murakami was obsessed with boobs throughout the entire novel, and the male gaze on display was just embarrassing.

And the way that sex worked with the mazas/dohtas and the male receivers/perceivers was so entirely weird and pedophilic and invasive, and NONE of it was explained. I mean seriously, what was the point of a totally obscure plot if you don’t bother explaining the significance of any of it. I prefer a subtle explanation, but would have accepted him deliberately delineating it to us as if we were idiots, beating it over our heads as he wrote the rest of this repetitive novel. Authors have done such elaborate world building in books half the size of this one, and yet Murakami did only the bare minimum in 1,150 pages. How on this beloved earth do you put literal pedophilia in your novel as a plot point and get away with not explaining its purpose there? Utterly baffling.

I’m down for writing bizarre plots and letting people interpret the meaning, but someone really has to tell me what there is to interpret here. I can find zero depth. 

On Goodreads, I’ve read that people who share the same opinion of this book have read other Murakami books they have actually enjoyed. Maybe I’ll try Norwegian Wood or Kafka on the Shore. I also got the impression from 1Q84 apologists that you have to already like Murakami to like this book. I’ll give Murakami one more shot, but I was seriously not impressed with 1Q84.