Reviews of Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami
أغلب اصدقائي بدأوا الريفيو ب"ناكاتا ليس ذكيا"و"عقل ناكاتا لا يحتمل كل هذا"..حسنا ربما فعلا وجدت هذا التفسير هنا واخر هناك حول تشبيه بعض الشخصيات باليابان قبل الحرب العالمية الثانيه وبعدها, ولكنها كلها لا تزيد عن تخمينات او تكهنات عاما لقد توقفت عن البحث الان ..وساستعير هذه الكلمات لتعبر عن رايي في التشبيهات والرموز السريالية بالرواية, كلمات من الرواية نفسها..اغلبها ل..ناكاتا بالطبع والتي كانت محقة فعلا في وصف احداث الرواية نفسها حسنا.. لقد كان التفكير بالنسبة لي في بعض احداث الرواية بالضبط كمحاولة تفسيري -دون اي دراسة للفنون لهذه اللوحه ولكن كما قلت للرواية بعض الجوانب الجيدة, مبدئيا ستشعر فعلا انك في صالون ثقافي ادبي تستمتع لحوار حول ادباء واعمال ادبية خالدة ليس الادب الياباني فحسب وانما عالمي وقد تعجبت جدا في جزء ما وتمنيت الا يحدث في نهايه تلك الرواية ما تم ذكره عن احد الاعمال الادبيه في ربع الرواية الاول ..ما قاله/ته أوشيما عن رواية عامل المنجم لناتسومي سوسيكي وأنما ينتابك بعد أن تنهي الرواية أحساس غريب ,وكأنك تتعجب : ما الذي كان سوسيكي يحاول قوله ؟ إنه هذا الأحساس -بأنك لا تعرف بالضبط ما الذي كان يريد سوسيكي قوله- هو الذي يبقي معك بعد قراءة الرواية, لا أستطيع أن أوضح جيدا" ولكن في نفس الوقت فلا أنكر اني استمتعت بأن يكون بطل الرواية شغوفا بالقراءه لهذا الحد, ووصفه للقراءه عاما يتناسب معي جدا جدا جدا ,ولطالما تحدثت عنه في بعض الريفيوهات وهنا يجب ان اذكر وجهه نظر اخري في موضوع الوصف الايروتيكي الزائد في بعض تفاصيل الرواية ,فأنا كـ"ناكاتا" راق لي هووس ناكاتا بالحنكليس وأكل الحنكليس حسنا حسنا اعلم اني تماديت, هذا لم يحدث في الرواية فوصفا كهذا مفروغا منه..يكفي ان نعرف انه يحب الحنكليس جدا, واكل احنكليس في بعض المرات خلال الاحداث هذه كانت النقطة الاخيرة في الريفيو الطويل الملائم لرواية طويلة مرهقه الي حد ما ربما لان في منتصف الاحداث كان سقف توقعاتي يعلو ويعلو لدرجة طموحي في ماستر سين ولكن لا يمنع هذا انها كانت رحلة من نوع خاص ولا تدع في النهاية تقييمي يبعدك عن قراءه الرواية..فالكثير من الاصدقاء استمتعوا بها اكثر مني كما يبدو , وهي رحلة فعلا اعتقد انها تستحق القراءه فبعض احداثها كان ممتعا بالنسبة لي "الريفيو في 27-29 مايو 2014"
بعد قراءة الاحداث الغرائبية بل والسريالية احيانا, أشعر بـ انني قد تحولت الي ناكاتا
إنها قصه كافكا الشاب الذي هرب من بيت أبيه هربا من لعنة سوداء ستتحقق
وناكاتا العجوز الذي يحب الحنكليس ويتحدث الي القطط ويبحث عن نصف ظله الاخر
وربما اجمل مافي رحلة كافكا هي الحوار الثقافي الفني بالمكتبة الرائعة, وإن طال
ولكن الامور تتأزم وتزداد غرابة وغموض ودموية..لكافكا من جهه وناكاتا من اخري
ثم تزداد الاحداث الغريبة والسريالية في رحلة البحث عن الحقيقة, اصل اللعنة..اصل الشخصية نفسها, وأصل الظل..في رحلتين منفصلتين متصلتين لكل من كافكا و ناكاتا..الأول يهرب من لعنة ابيه ليجد انه يهرب اليها والاخر يذهب في رحلة طويلة للبحث عن نصف ظله الاخر مع رفيق يمنحه رحلة تغير حياته
وماذا يربط بين كل هذا؟ ماهو حجر المدخل؟ كيف فقد ناكاتا ظله؟ ولماذا؟
يجب ان تظل مع كافكا وناكاتا حتي نهاية الرحلة كي تعرف..
لتصل الي الحقيقة وراء حجر المدخل..ولكنك ستكون مرهقا بحق كهذه الصورة بالظبط
ولكني لست مرهقا, بل مشتتا ومتحيرا..لم افهم الكثير من الاحداث السريالية والرموز التي بالطبع لم استطع فك شفرتها..اشعر اني فعلا صرت كالسيد ناكتاكا, بل والادهي اشعر اني فقدت القدرة علي الحديث مع سوزي !!!! قطتي البيضاء التي تساعدني في كتابة الريفيو, انها كالفتي المدعو كرو بالنسبة لي
لقد تسببت الاحداث السريالية المبتورة بعضها او التي انتهت دون تفسير واضح او حتي مبهم في حيرتي,وحتي بحثت عن ولو تفسير بسيط دون جدوي بالرغم من البحث والبحث والبحث
وبهذه المناسبة يجب ان اشير الي ان الرسومات الرائعة في البداية هي لفنانة متميزة وجدت موقعها بالصدفة وقت البحث وهذا موقعها من هناا
Lisa Ito, is the immature super talented illustrator of the pictures of the novel at the beginning of the review ,you lot can know more about her and her amazing site for the novel hither
الاحداث بعضها مثير فعلا، ولاهث وعجيب
وإن كان ظل أغلبه بلا معني في الصورة الكاملة للاسف...ربما هو رمزي لظروف ما باليابان، وصراع بين القديم والحديث...صراع في الحياة من بعد الحرب العالمية الثانية وسقوط القنبلة النووية الأمريكية علي اليابان
ربما هي عن الحياة في اليابان بين الماضي والامبراطورية اليابانية وبين الحاضر...ربما وربما وربما ولكني للأسف فعلا لم أستطع أستيعابها كاملة" من الأفضل ألا أحاول العثور على المنطق"
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لا يجب عليك ان تفكر في اشياء صعبة, فقط دع نفسك تتخللها وتنغمس بها.بالنسبة لناكاتا لا شئ يمكن ان يكون افضل من ذلك
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او ذلك الحوار الكوميدي بين هوشينو صديقه وكولونيل كنتاكي الشهير "بتاع الفراخ , انا لم اخطئ في الكتابة اذا لم تقرأ الرواية"
قال هوشينو : عموما لقد قررت ألا أفكر في الأمور كثيرا, لقد عشت نوعا من الخلاص الليلة الماضية. كنت أتعامل مع توافه الأمور بجدية فائقة - مضيعة حقيقية للوقت
-خلاصة حكيمة جدا, فالمثل يقول تفكير بلا جدوي أسوأ من عدم التفكير
-يعجبني هذا القول
-له معان كثيرة ألا توافقني الرأي
-وهل سمعت هذا القول :"سدينا شط السيد والسيد ما سد شطنا"؟
-وما معني هذا القول اللعين أصلا؟
-لقد أخترعته, لخبطة لسان لا أكثر
ولكن هذا ليس معناه اني لا احب هذا النوع من الاحداث الغريبه...بالعكس فقرائتي السابقة كانت مائة عام من العزلة..الواقعية السحرية, وكانت من امتع قرائتي
في ذلك الحوار الذي يدور دائما بين كافكا وأوشيما ,أمين/ة المكتبة, أو حتي هوشينو وشخصيات اخري حول الفن والموسيقي والافلام عاما..فجو المكتبة كان جميلا بحق وتلك الجولة في اشهر الروائع الادبية والفنية
فقط يعيبه انه كان طويلا احيانا, مستفيضا جدا احيانا اخري, وبعض الوقت مملا,وان لم يفق وصف جولات كافكا في الغابة وحده "واعضاءه" مللا "تلك التجارب التي يمر بها في المنجم هي تجارب يمتزج فيها الموت بالحياة . وفي النهاية يخرج من المنجم ويعود الي حياته القديمة, من دون ��ي إشارة ألي انه تعلم شيئا من تلك التجربة أو حدث تغيير في حياته, أو أنه بدأ يفكر بعمق في معني الحياة ,ولا يصل إليك كذلك أي إحساس بأنه نضج
حسنا...لم يصل الامر لهذا الحد وأن كان قريبا منها نوعا ما بالنسبه لي..فشعرت ان الرواية فعلا كجزء ثاني من عامل المنجم..لن تعرف ما الذي كان يريد ان يقوله هاروكي موراكامي من اجمالي هذه الرحله"يبدأ العالم الحقيقي في التبخر من ذهني. أصبح وحيداً. داخل القصة. وهذا إحساسي المفضل"
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"لا أندفع في القراءة كأنني في سباق, بل أعيد قراءة الأجزاء التي أعتقد أنها الأهم حتى أفهم مغزاها"
وبالرغم من تطبيقي لهذه المقولة الاخيرة اثناء قرائتي لتلك الرواية, الا انها لسهولة لغتها بحق -يحسب تماما للروائي طبعا وللمترجمة ايضا في نفس الوقت- كانت تنتهي مني بسرعة..ورغم ذلك لم استعب كل شئ حتي الان
عقل ناكاتا لا يحتمل كل هذا
وبالرغم من ان الجزء في البداية الخاص بالتحقيقات جعلني اشعر انها كحلقات
The X-Files
وهي حلقاتي المفضلة اساسا, وعشقي للغرائبية الشديدة في بعض الاحيان حتي مثلا شعرت ان الاجواء كاجواء افلام ديفيد لينش "والذي استمتعت جدا بجو طريق موهلاند, والذي يحتوي علي بعض عناصر نفس تلك الرواية"
و بالرغم من استمتاعي الشديد جدا بفكرة ناكاتا ومحادثته للقطط
حسنا يجب ان اعترف انني احب القطط وكنت اعشق "وعشت" مغامرة بكوميكس في سن العاشرة لم أمل من تكرارها وهيرحلة القط مشمش
ولكني فعلا شعرت بشئ من الاحباط لتداعي القصة بطريقة لم ترق لي مبالغ في غرائبيتها ولم تكن الخيوط التي تربط الشخصيات بالقوة التي كنت متوقعها
فمثلا موهبة التحدث للقطط, غير مفهوم كيف انتهت..التحقيقات, لم تنتهي بنفس القوة التي بدأت بها
لا اتحدث عن الغرائبية الزائده او شئ من السريالية فكما جاء علي لسان احد الشخصيات
"أنا لست ضد الأشياء المعتوهة كليّاً"
بالعكس راق لي بعض الاشياء المعتوهه بالاحداث "فكما قلت اح�� الغرائبيات" ولكني لم افهمها في كثير من الاحيان..وبعضها كان مبتورا او بدون مغزي
ومره اخري اقتبس من الاحداث
لقد عبر أنطون تشيخوف علي أفضل نحو عندما قال : إذا ظهر مسدس في قصة ما, فسيكون من الضروري في النهاية أن يطلق النار
وبصراحة..ووجهه نظري هي
كم من مسدس ظهر في تلك الرواية..لم يطلق حتي صوتا 
حسنا, أعتقد أنني اطلت كثيرا :) ,لقد نامت سوزي وقت كتابتي الريفيو
فكما بجانب الحوار الثقافي الادبي الفني السينمائي ستجد ايضا حوار عن الطعام ومأكولات يابانية ممتاز بحق
وقد أكل ناكاتا الحنكليس اكثر من مرة بالروايه واعلن شغفه له تقريبا في كل مره يتحدث عن الطعام.."بطريقة ساخرة وجميلة جدا" لدرجة انه اجبرني علي الذهاب لمطعم السوشي في نص الشهر "بعد نفاذ المرتب تقريبا" لتناول طبقا من الاوناجي سوشي -او ما يعرف بالإييل نيجيري او الحنكليس :)"
ولكن طوال الاحداث لم تجد وصف كيف قام ناكاتا بوضع قطعة لحم الحنكليس علي لسانه وكيف سال لعابه عليها قبل ان يضم شفتيه علي القطعة نفسها,ولبمضغه مضغتان بسيطتان بالاسنان ليذوب لحم الحنكليس المطهو جيدا -حيث انه من المأكولات البحرية القليلة جدا التي لا تقدم نيئة تماما في السوشي- مخلفا طعما شهيا لاذعا لذعة بحرية ,ليبتلعه ويشعر بالسعادة ..ثم بعد..
حسنا, كنت اتمني ان يحدث نفس الاختزال بالنسبه للمشاهد الجنسية..هل تفهم قصدي؟
بالنسبة لكافكا, انه حدث الجنس مع كذا ومع كذا وكان جميلا او غريبا او ايا كان الموقف,ولكن الاسهاب في السرد, وايضا بالاخص الاجزاء الخاصة بوصف الاعضاء كان مملا للغاية, وفي غير مكانه علي ما اعتقد بالنسبة للرواية الغير مصنفة علي انها ايروتيكية
ربما تقييمي لها بنجمتين جاء بسبب كل ماسبق,ربما لانني لم افهمها وتحولت الي ناكاتا أخر
Master-scene
او مشهد ذروة قبل النهاية يجتمع فيه اهم الابطال يلقون بتفسيرات او يفجرون مفاجأت لبعضهم البعض مثلا,ويمسك ناكاتا رأسه بيديه متألما من الاحداث المتلاحقة ليئن ويقولعقل ناكاتا لا يحتمل كل هذا
ولكن هذا للاسف لم يحدث..وكانت الخلاصات التي خرجت منها بالرواية قليلة لانني لم افهمها..فعقلي لم يتحمل كل هذا
أصدرت الكتاب دار نشر متواضعة, ولم يشتره أحد. لم يكن الكتاب يتضمن أي خلاصات, ولا ,ولا أحد يرغب في قراءة كتاب بلا خلاصات. لكن في ما يخصني كان من المناسب جدا ألا أصل إلي خلاصات
هكذا قالت ميس سايكي , تلك الشخصية الغامضة..وهكذا شعرت بالنهاية..انا لم احب الكتاب وقيمته هكذا لاني لم اخرج منه بخلاصة
وربما اعاودها مرة اخري -ولكن بقراءه سريعة المرة القادمة- بعدما اقرأ اكثر حول التاريخ الياباني وتطورات مجتمعه من خلال روايات من الادب الياباني اخري ,فكافكا علي الشاطئ اول قرائتي في الادب الياباني
وسأختتم ايضا كما فعلت طوال ذلك الريفيو بتلك الجملتين الانسب للختام"هناك أشياء كثيرة لا نستطيع أن نراها بوضوح إلا بعد زمن"
الزمن..اه من الزمن
كانت تلك الرواية التالية لرواية زمنية اخري عشقتها وتحدثت عن الزمن في الريفيو الخاص بها وهي مائة عام من العزلة
وربما لهذا هذا الجزء اعجبني جدا ايضا لميس سايكي عن الذكريات والزمن-كل ما أردته الانطلاق غلي عالم أخر, عالم لايصل اليه احد,عالم وراء مسار الزمن
-لكن لا مكان كهذا في العالم
-بالظبط, ولهذا مازلت هنا, في هذا العالم حيث تستمر الأشياء بالفناء, وتتقلب القلوب ,ولا يكف الزمن عن الرور
وتصمت برهه كأنما تشير إلي مرور الزمن
كل منا يفقد شيئا عزيزا عليه, فرصا, أمكانيات, مشاعر لا يمكننا استعادتها أبدا. كل هذا جزء من معني كوننا نعيش. ولكن في داخل رؤوسنا- أو هذا ما أتصوره أنا- نخزن الذكريات في غرفة صغيرة هناك ز غرفة كالرفوف في هذه المكتبة, ولنعي الأعمال التي كتبتها قلوبنا, علينا أن نصنفها وننظمها ببطاقات , ونزيل عنها الغبار من حين لأخر, ونجدد لها الهواء, ونغير الماء في أواني الزهور , بكلمات أخري , ستعيش إلي الأبد في مكتبتك الخاصة بك
حسنا...اعتقد فعلا ان هذه الرحلة بالرغم من كل شئ, لن انساها
"ورغم مرور وقت طويل، وبغض النظر عن كل الأحداث الغامرة، فهناك أشياء لايسعنا أبداً أن نلقيها في طي النسيان، ذكريات لاتمحى، تبقى للأبد كالحجر الصوان."
محمد العربي
من 4 مايو 2014
الي eight مايو 2014
Kafka on the Shore is a metaphor. It follows no rules, it doesn't adhere to reason, and applicability is non an consequence. It fills you up, it tears yous down. A fugue of emotions are present, you can't seem to figure out which of the many different realizations flooding you is most important. Waves roll up again and over again on the beach of your consciousness and at first you resist, but later a while you lot sympathise that your struggle is pointless, so you give in. You lot read, yous feel, yous effort to understand, you try to brand sense. And you know what? You beloved it. I don't think I can fairly get the gist of a Murakami feel on a goodreads review. It'south something else, something you have to feel for yourself. I will try, just I know I shall fail. You have to realize that reading Murakami requires a unity of perception and feeling. I can attempt to brand you understand certain concepts found in the book, but I will fall brusk on the sensory part. Murakami's strength is the feeling he wraps around his teachings. He's a surrealist painter, a musician, an oddity that weaves consciousness with popular-culture and makes it work. People say his works are easily accessible yet elegantly complex, I whole-heartedly agree. His style is so rich and resonant that information technology can dabble into lunacy without any sort of urgency. He isn't regulated in any way, a writer free from normative paradigms and moral constraints. He's pretty strange, but trust me, information technology's awesome the way he writes. Okay, I'm gonna cease myself here. All I'm going to say is try it, experience information technology. See for yourself. This novel is shared between ii people's inter-continued tales of self-discovery. A damaged fifteen year-old named Kafka, an illiterate and magical sometime-man named Nakata, one fleeing from something, the other searching, one looking forward, the other looking back, ane with a vivid hereafter ahead of him, the other with a dark past. Two very different people, yet their fates are intertwined past something so inconspicuous. As I said, Murakami hurls many different things at you at interruption-neck speed. He tin can talk almost fate ane minute, and then drop it and talk nearly imperfection the next. It's kind of messy at times, merely the cumulative effect is still pretty solid. It'southward like he'southward packing everything in a mumble-jumble of thoughts that defoliation is a constant. But when you lot sift through his words, you discover that your defoliation is more of feeling than an actual state of listen. You understand him perfectly, merely you tin can't put into words the emotion inside you. Stunning is I retrieve the closest word possible to describing it. For me, though, the thing that stood out the well-nigh was his ode to fourth dimension. "Most things are forgotten over time. Even the state of war itself, the life-and-expiry struggle people went through is now like something from the distant past. Nosotros're so caught up in our everyday lives that events of the by are no longer in orbit effectually our minds. There are only likewise many things nosotros accept to think most every day, too many new things we have to learn. But still, no matter how much time passes, no thing what takes identify in the acting, there are some things we can never assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away. They remain with us forever, like a touchstone." Time is an of import concept. It is correlated to dear and retentiveness, two other topics that are central in Murakami'due south points. You see, some people when they detect love and are at their happiest, they want to freeze time and live in that moment forever. But what they have to know is that a moment alone will lose all meaning. The present is useless without both the past and future. Y'all cannot capeesh something without knowing how you got at that place nor understanding that something will come out of it. The past gives a history, the futurity a possibility. Time is thing of beauty. Life without it is like air, you be but you are stagnant and boring. With information technology, it is like the air current, moving, dancing, flowing into the unknown. Just not only that, time makes dearest possible, because love takes time. "Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we tin can never go back. That's role of what it ways to be alive. But inside our heads - at least that's where I imagine it - in that location's a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to empathize the workings of our ain heart nosotros have to keep on making new reference cards. Nosotros take to dust things off every in one case in a while, let in fresh air, alter the water in the flower vases. In other words, you'll live forever in your own individual library." Aside from dear, time as well makes one important affair possible. Memories. "If yous remember me, then I don't care if anybody else forgets." It allows united states of america to shop things inside our minds so that nosotros tin can cherish them as long as we can. It permits us to call back those that have been, those that build up who nosotros are. Because each person is shaped by the cumulative memories that he or she makes. Whether they may be happy or painful or dull, they mold us into who we are. Identity is slowly transformed over time, with our memories playing a vital role. "Sometimes fate is similar a pocket-sized sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases y'all. Yous plough once more, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, similar some ominous dance with expiry just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has goose egg to practise with y'all. This storm is yous. Something within of you. So all y'all tin can do is requite in to it, footstep right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging upward your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. At that place's no sunday there, no moon, no management, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling upward into the heaven like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine. And y'all actually will have to get in through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic tempest. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you volition drain too. Hot, ruddy claret. You lot'll catch that blood in your hands, your ain blood and the blood of others. And one time the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You lot won't even exist sure, in fact, whether the tempest is actually over. But ane thing is certain. When you lot come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about." Our identity, no matter how much fourth dimension and memories change it, some function of information technology volition stay the same. There are things that are unchangeable, things that will make you lot look into the past and see the same thing now. But, there are things that we purposely hold on to that hurt us, things that we hibernate in u.s. and comprise through time. Things that nosotros tin can let go of, but we don't, fifty-fifty if it is painful. A fourth dimension will come up when you lot will have to let go. "In everybody'due south life there'due south a bespeak of no return. And in a very few cases, a point where you tin't go frontward anymore. And when we achieve that signal, all nosotros can practice is quietly accept the fact. That's how we survive." "As long as there's such a thing as time, everybody's damaged in the end, changed into something else. "Just if that happens, you've got a identify you tin can retrace your steps to" "Retrace your steps to?" "A place that's worth coming back to." Every bit I finish this review, I'm very excited. Yes, I know that I've got my memories to expect dorsum to, simply what I'yard excited about are those memories that haven't been fabricated yet. The future is alee of me, I've got time on my hands. The possibilities are endless.
"Sometimes fate is like a small-scale sandstorm that keeps changing directions. Yous alter direction merely the sandstorm chases you. You plow again, but the tempest adjusts. Over and over yous play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this tempest isn't something that blew in from far abroad, something that has nothing to exercise with yous. This storm is yous. Something inside of you. Then all you lot can do is give in to it, stride right inside the storm, closing your optics and plugging up your ears and then the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, stride past step. There's no sun there, no moon, no management, no sense of time. Merely fine white sand swirling up into the sky similar pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm yous need to imagine." His given proper noun isn't Kafka Tamura, only when he decides to strike out on his ain he gave himself a proper name that more than properly fit the version of himself he wanted to get. Kafka means crow in Czech. A name of significance to an inner cocky. His father is a earth famous sculptor, a man admired for the strength of emotion his creations inspire. He likewise brought his son into beingness (no hocus pocus here...the old fashioned mode) molding him equally if he were inanimate clay, infusing him with imagination, and in the end like a demented soothsayer, warping him with an Oedipus expletive. Kill the male parent. "Information technology's all a question of imagination. Our responsibility begins with the ability to imagine. It's only like Yeats said: In dreams begin responsibilities. Flip this around and you could say that where there's no ability to imagine, no responsibility can arise." Kafka is 15, not going on 16, simply barely fifteen. He is on a quest to notice himself. Similar an arrow shot past a certain hand he lands at a private library managed by a cute adult female named Miss Saeki. "I look for the fifteen-year-old daughter in her and find her correct away. She'due south hidden, asleep, similar a 3-D painting in the forest of her center. But if you expect carefully y'all tin spot her. My chest starts pounding over again, like somebody's hammering a long smash into the walls surrounding it." Kafka feels a kinship with her that makes him wonder if she is his long lost female parent. She has experienced tragedy, losing a lover when she was fifteen, and leaving backside a ghost of herself that becomes a haunting experience for Kafka. "While they're still live, people tin can get ghosts." As a parallel story nosotros follow the quondam man Nakata and his truck driving sidekick Hoshino. Nakata experienced something equally a child during the war that left him unable to comprehend reality, just too opened upwardly doorways in his mind to things that if they e'er existed... in our minds... accept long been lost. He is crazy. Nakata searches for lost cats and discovers in the process that he has an curvation nemesis in a true cat killing phantom named Johnnie Walker. Johnnie turns cats into beautiful flutes and collects their heads in a similar fashion to big game hunters. After a confrontation Nakata finds himself with the demand to exit which dovetails perfectly with his quest to find an entrance rock that opens upwardly another world, another world where things have been left backside. "You should start searching for the other half of your shadow." The connection between Nakata and Kafka are very stiff. Their dreams mingle, a nemesis for one is a nemesis for the other. They may have different names, only they are one and the same. The quest for one of our heroes is contingent on the success of the other. If they are aware of each other information technology is buried nether their ain electric current perceptions of reality. Ane of the more than humorous moments is when Hoshino, once a perfectly sane normal human being, meets Colonel Sanders, not someone dressed as Colonel Sanders, only the finger lickin' practiced, fried chicken magnet himself. Hoshino, after several days of trying to wrap his head around the eccentricities of his traveling companion, is in demand of relaxation. Every bit it turns out the Colonel can assist him accept the best time of his life. He hooks him up with a prostitute, merely not just whatever prostitute. "The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already retentiveness." A philosophical prostitute with a special penchant for Hegel. "Hegel believed that a person is not only conscious of cocky and object equally dissever entities, simply through the project of the self via the mediation of the object is volitionally able to gain a deeper understanding of the self. All of which constitutes cocky-consciousness." "I dont' know what the heck you're talking about." "Well, retrieve of what I'thou doing to you correct now. For me I'one thousand the self, and you're the object. For you, of course, information technology's the exact opposite--you're the self to you and I'm the object. And by exchanging self and object, nosotros can project ourselves into the other and gain self-consciousness. Volitionally." "I yet don't get it, but it sure feels good." "That's the whole idea." the girl said. I accept a new appreciation for Hegel. Kafka also meets a fantastic graphic symbol named Oshima which I really can't talk about without explaining him in item, simply past explaining him in item would reveal a rather surprising moment in the volume which I really want to preserve for those that oasis't read this book all the same. Permit's just say he isn't exactly who he seems, just he is exactly who he says he is. He proves to be the perfect friend for anyone, simply for a dream questing xv yr old runaway trying to escape an Oedipus Curse he is a steady stone to understand even those things beyond the telescopic of comprehension. He sees things for more than what they are. Oshima explains to Kafka why he likes Schubert. "That'southward why I like to listen to Schubert while I'm driving. Similar I said, it's because all the performances are imperfect. A dense, artistic kind of imperfection stimulates your consciousness, keeps y'all alarm. If I listen to some utterly perfect functioning of an utterly perfect piece while I'one thousand driving. I might want to shut my eyes and die correct then and at that place. But listening to the D major, I can feel the limits of what humans are capable of--that a certain type of perfection can only be realized through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect. And personally, I observe that encouraging." It is hard for those of the states who take based their whole life off of reason to proceed from instantly dismissing the improbable, the impossible, the absurd, the preposterous, but you must if you are going to hang with Haruki Murakami. Although, I must say there is something very accessible nigh his writing style that makes the transition from reality to alternative reality to fantasy back to a new reality painless. We all have mystical things happen to us. We rarely recognize it, about times we fill in what we don't understand with something nosotros tin can understand and in the process snap the threads of the boggling. I experience the lure of the unknown quite regularly. I feel the itch to leave everything and become someplace where no one knows my proper noun. A place where possibly I can discover the rest of my self, the lost selves each belongings a fragment of the missing function of my shadow. If you wish to see more of my most recent book and movie reviews, visithttp://www.jeffreykeeten.com
Sexual practice the sister.
Seduce the mother.
to lose himself.
to escape himself.
to avert the prophecy.
He is a prophet.
He tin can talk to cats.
He tin understand stones.
He can open an umbrella and leeches or fish or lightening tin fall from the sky.
He isn't crazy.
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Few books accept infected me with boredom-induced Add together, the desire to gnaw my own foot off at the ankle, and the country of mind you lot might experience if forced to sit upon a nest of hornets while watching your dwelling house being burglarized, but this was one of them. It took me until page 70 to finish wanting to hop upward and rearrange the spice cupboard or my sock drawer every few sentences, merely and so the feeling returned at page 243. Only 224 pages to become! From then on, my hatred and resentment of this book progressively grew like a dead cow bloating in the heat. "Kafka on the Shore" is a mess. Information technology is such a mess that information technology makes my six-year-old son's post-playdate bedroom wait like Buckingham Palace. Loosely based on the Oedipus myth, and taking some obvious inspiration from Catcher in the Rye, this book seems to be trivial more than than a random hodgepodge of ideas held together with pipe cleaners and raspberry jam. There was so much to detest nigh this book. Here are just a few things: After the kickoff 100 pages I thought that I might end up giving this volume three stars. Another 100 pages on, I decided ii stars. By folio 331 I decided one star, and by the stop of this frustrating, pretentious, and completely unsatisfying book, I felt like I'd squandered so much of my precious life reading this pile o' doo-doo that I didn't want to give information technology even 1 star. However, since Mr. Murakami knows how to spell (or at least, I'm assuming he does since this is a translation) I will relent. In the end, love or loathing of a book is entirely subjective, and scores of critics loved this one. Every bit for me, I feel that if I'd wanted to find pregnant in a random jumble of junk, I would accept had more luck going to the thrift shop and sifting through the bric-a-brac box than wasting time on Mr. Murakami's encephalon-omelette.
ane. Boring, unnecessary descriptions – that do null to further the story – of what people are wearing, what Kafka likes to exercise during his workout, what he decides to consume, what he is listening to on his Walkman, and so on. I wouldn't have been surprised to read a monologue from Kafka along the lines of: "When I wipe my arse, I like to use just four squares of toilet paper, no more than, no less. I count them out – 1, two, three, iv. Then I fold the length over once, and once more. Equipped now with the perfect, handheld quilt, I wipe in a unmarried, expert, sweeping motion – front to back. Examine the paper to determine whether I demand to echo the process. However, I would add that this is merely if the paper is two-ply. For one-ply newspaper, I need a minimum of viii sheets, but just if they are of high quality. If non of high quality, the boy Crow reminds me, 'Call up, you've got to be the toughest 15-year-quondam on the planet.'"
two. The gratuitous cat torture scene. Johnnie Walker (him off the whiskey canteen) has to cutting the hearts out of living cats and eat them and so that he can collect cat souls to brand a special kind of flute. In that location is no freakin' point to this scene any – we never hear about Johnnie or his cat-flute once again.
iii. The annoying way characters – Oshima in item – deliver sermons most philosophy, art, literature and classical music. It took me right out of the story (tangled mess though information technology was) and smacked of "Look at me – aren't I clever?"
iv. The screechy-preachy scene with the "feminist" caricatures in the library.
v. Detest to be ungroovy or whatever – but I just couldn't stand any of the sex scenes, particularly with Miss Saeki, the 50-something librarian who gets it on over and over again with the 15-yr-old protagonist even though he and she both know she might be his long-lost mother. Excuse me while I get mop the vomitus off of my living room wall.
Read
Edited January 15, 2020 2nd read thoughts: I idea I'd go a amend understanding for this story the second time effectually, but I'm yet lost in a globe full of questions. I know that's partly the author's intent though! I feel like I'm going to drive myself crazy if I keep trying to make sense of what this book is trying to achieve. I think that's kind of the point though. This volume isn't trying to achieve anything, it'south 1 of those books where the reader is left to decide what the book ultimately does. Which makes this an even more interesting experience, because everyone comes out of it with something different. first read thoughts: This was definitely an interesting read. I feel like I volition have to read it again for everything to fully brand sense, but I was surprised by how easy this volume was to follow. I also loved the writing manner! I will definitely exist giving more books by Haruki Murakami ago in the futurity.
إلتقيت قبل أيام بزميل ياباني ودار بيننا حوار حول الأدب والقراءة، وتطرقنا لرواية هاروكي موراكامي هذه، وسألني إن كنت قد فهمت الرواية، خصوصًا أنني أبديت إعجابي الشديد بها، فقلت له: بصراحة .. كلا!
ضحك بشدة وقال لي : لو أنك قلت أنك فهمت الرواية لجزمت بأنك لم تقرأها، فهذه الرواية أصلا قائمة على عدم الفهم: عدم فهم الحياة، عدم فهم الحب، عدم فهم الذات..إلخ وهي بعكس روايات باولو كويلو الوعظية -مثلاً- لا تقدم لك إجابات جاهزة ومعلبة، أو تطبطب على عقلك، أو تحقن روحك بمخدر موضعي، بل تسبب لك قلقًا فكريًا وتدفعك للتساؤل بينك وبين نفسك: هل أنا أفهم..نفسي؟
يستلهم هاروكي موراكامي نفسه
يفككها ويأخذ محتوياتها ليصنع منها شخصياته
هو الصبي المراهق المتمرد على الثقافة الأبوية، يتنكر بقناع كافكا ويرتدي قميصه ويتشرب اغترابه
وهو الشاب الذي قتله أصحابه بطريق الخطأ في فورة غضبهم السياسي
وهو الحاكي بصوت شهرزاد التي تكتب أغنية وحيدة لحبيب ستستعيد صورته في الخريف
وهو ناكاتا المتحدث مع القطط الذي يستقبل رسائل من بشر يخفون معاناتهم في كتابات تتناثر في رياح الزمن مع رماد الوقت
وهو قط يبحث عمن يفهم لغته
وهو الشرقي الذي غزته ثقافة الغرب
وهو السائق المشحون بصدى بيتهوفن وشوبرت يرددها عبر فاصل من المحيطات والبحار
وهو قبل وبعد ذلك الصوفي الذي تتلمس روحه العلاقات الشعورية الخفية في عناصر العالم فيعبر متاهات الجسد وأنفاق المنطق محددا نقاط بعيدة تتلاقى ذراتها في رياح الجزر المتناثرة في مضارب الأعاصير
رواية مشبعة بالثقافة العابرة للحدود والأنماط الفكرية والغرائبية التي يتحدث بها صمتنا
رواية تستبطن محاصيل أحاديث أحلام اليقظة ومتاهات الكوابي
تنتزع الآخر من سباته باعماقنا
لتضعه على شاطئ الحكايات
مغامرة في محبة الرحلة والموسيقى وا��قطط
أقصد الحرية والفن والكائنات
قد تتم الترجمة عن لغة وسيطة، لكنها تصوغ الرواية عملا فنيا يعي جمال السرد
ويجيد التعامل مع أوراق لعب المبدعين
حتى لو كانت هذه الألعاب بديعية تستخدم الجناس لكشف العلاقة بين ألفاظ المجتمع وثقافته
تحية للمترجمة التي تجيد صياغة السرد بروح أدبية فيها تماسك التأليف واستراتيجية نقل الشكل وجمالياته التشكيلية ومقصديته الشعورية وتبحث عن معادل بلاغي للألعاب اللغوية البديعية
I experience compelled to say something about this right now, simply for the fact that I have seen a lot of Murakami bickering on goodreads over the years, and information technology has washed nothing but increase in frequency in the moments leading up to, during, and across the release of his mammoth novel 1Q84, significant the last couple o' months. I guess I just feel a need to state my case for the homo, since he seems severely divisive in this hit way. Sure, I could certainly compose a lengthy list of love-or-hate writers I've witnessed throughout my stint on this website, but Murakami is one of the dudes who seems to take hold of oddly equal amount of rapturous praise and sneering vitriol. When i considers reading his piece of work and attempts to decide whether or non to invest the fourth dimension based solely on the thoughts others take shared hither on this website, it must brand the head do some Exorcist-spins. Information technology has been well-nigh a decade since I get-go jumped into Murakami's world, and the majority of my readings of his works were conducted in the rapid-fire procedure which ensued almost immediately later my cherry-popper, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. Having always been a classics sorta girl, occasionally dipping into trounce and dystopian works, information technology was a foreign experience to approach something then far-removed from what I was accustomed to affectionate. I loved information technology, though...passionately loved it at the time, and stuck with him over the years as a consistent replacement for the dreams that I practice not ever remember having. Like, ever. I discover myself increasingly disappointed past the Murakami I read, though, and I'm not sure if that is a matter of growing out of him, or merely reading his all-time works first, and his lesser works subsequently. All the same, this is a great book. Equally I call up. I will proceed to note it every bit a favorite if only for the fact that at the fourth dimension, I felt something stirring in my subconscious which had previously been silently stewing. He manages to orchestrate a veritable dance of imagery with his bizarro story-lines, and he is pretty insightful on the subject of dark emotional landscapes in his stilted, very Japanese way. This *is* a swell book. I want people to love him and his novels as much as I practice. In fact, I want to still beloved his novels as much every bit I remember that I did when kickoff exposed to them. I did read one of his brusque stories much more recently, though, (Tony Takitani) and I definitely found it to be a haunting and ethereal seance of death-fears, lost loves, and regret which reminded me of all those big, intangible emotions type-o-thangs that made me honey his piece of work way dorsum when I was a drunken, reckless, irresponsible art school kid who had barely just evacuated her mother'south birth canal and spent virtually of her time poor, painfully morosely hungover, clutching a cigarette in her fixer-stinking hand while muttering various cynicisms to herself, and perpetually wondering what the fuck she was doing most anything and everything. Alright, nearly everything I only said still applies, merely at least I acknowledge it now. Basically, I should reread his works and reconsider my perspective. I doubt I will ever do that, though. I'm sorta fond of my fond memories of fondness. All the same, if y'all read this or like novels by him and think they suck, don't requite me grief about information technology. I remember him in that fashion in which yous recall a lover who may have been a horrible match, but treated you well plenty to warrant an occasional "what if" type of idealized bullshit reminiscence. I'm glad I read him when I did, but I must confess that every bit shortly every bit I held a hard copy of 1Q84 in my hands, fabricated note of the necessary fourth dimension commitment, and considered the number of books of equal length that I desperately want to read, I just knew that Murakami and I were basically through. I volition still go in for the occasional quickie, but I just don't think I'one thousand ready to settle downwards with him and become serious again. That was and so and this is now. Know what I'm sayin'? He's still a wonderful storyteller, though. I hope that if you 2 take yet to come across, information technology's under the correct circumstances when y'all do. He'southward a lovely fella.
1.v. Ta książka była odpychająca, niesmaczna, dziwna do potęgi i utwierdziła mnie w przekonaniu, że nie chcę mieć dzieci 🥲 Ale równocześnie jest w pewnym względzie monumentalna. Tylko panie autorze, co pan spożywał jak pan to wymyślał
"What I think is this: Y'all should give up looking for lost cats and first searching for the other half of your shadow." There are few writers ~~ very few writers, whose worlds I honey to inhabit. Woolf is i of them; so too is Joyce, Chekhov another, every bit are Dickens, Twain, Proust and Tolstoy. I can now add to that list, Haruki Murakami. Equally I've stated before, I was tardily to the the Murakami feast, but once I arrived I was treated to a maganificent feast, and now I have been treated to the chief class KAFKA ON THE SHORE. Kafka is i of the most succulent meals I have ever been served. If I could, I would give this magnificent book six stars. KAFKA ON THE SHORE is a nearly perfect novel. KAFKA ON THE SHORE is a beautifully told story about needing to let go and step out of your own reality in order to find out that life is meant to be lived. Leading us on the journey of self-discovery is xv-year-former Kafka Tamura. We join Kafka on his journeying from runaway to enlightened being. Our other guide is Mr. Nakata, who lives half in this world and half in a world non of his choosing. At the aforementioned fourth dimension, we run across a whole lot of other people who lack self-sensation, living on the fringe of lodge ~~ and what a colorful cast of characters it is. In that location is Oshima, who lives on the edge of genders. We come across Hoshino, whose optics are opened to what he tin be thru his interactions with Mr. Nakata, and who escapes his dead cease reality and grows into a new one. And lastly, Miss Saeki who has chosen to live in the by more than the present. KAFKA ON THE SHORE is a profoundly spiritual exploration of life, who we honey, and the choices we brand in life. Murakami introduces u.s.a. to Zen and Buddhist philosophies, with a little Hinduism thrown in for good measure out. KAFKA ON THE SHORE would make a terrific companion slice to Thomas Merton's Zen and the Birds of Appetite and The Wisdom of the Desert. There is much to dear in KAFKA ON THE SHORE. Like near brilliant pieces of literature, it was difficult to leave the world Murakami created. KAFKA ON THE SHORE will resonate with me for years to come. Rarely has a volume satisfied me on so many levels.
Haruki Murakami -- Kafka on the Shore 
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