Okada discovers that a World War II veterinarian shares the same peculiar blue mark that he has on his face and multiple characters throughout various historical times find themselves at the bottoms of dark, empty wells.Īll of these narrative threads with seemingly random moments of intersection create a sense of multiplicity, of spiraling out towards multiple directions which is not unlike the feeling of bafflement one is overcome by when something happens exactly at the right time and place-like when you’re thinking of a specific person and two seconds later you run into them. As the characters’ backstories unfold, more and more parallels between their pasts and Mr. One day his wife disappears, and on his search for answers, he becomes acquainted with a plethora of seemingly random strangers.
Okada, a simple man living a simple life. Just as I sometimes wonder what that person on the BART (the one sporting a yellow rain jacket, cradling a bouquet of flowers) is doing right now, I also wonder what Malta Kano, Cinnamon, and May Kasahara are up to as I type.īeyond the individual characters, I found the overall plot to be absolutely enthralling.
Just as I sometimes wonder what that person on the BART (the one sporting a yellow rain jacket, cradling a bouquet of flowers) is doing right now, I also wonder what Malta Kano, Cinnamon, and May Kasahara are up to as I type. Similarly, the subtle way Murakami lends the reader access to certain details about each of the characters’ lives made me feel connected to these strangers in an intimate way. I’ll be on the BART, in a carriage full of strangers, and someone’s outfit or mannerism will catch my eye because the person is too occupied being and existing within their own world to notice my gaze, I will feel as though I secretly possess the knowledge of a small, unfiltered piece of that stranger’s personality. Murakami’s meticulous method of developing characters is reminiscent of the quiet and precious intimacy I feel when people-watching on public transportation. And then there’s May Kasahara, the scrawny teenage neighbor who’s often found sunbathing in her backyard. There is Cinnamon, the secret agent with a knack for cleanliness who, one day, never uttered a single word again. There is Malta Kano, the clairvoyant with the solemn voice and the red vinyl hat. The novel is composed of a trillion tiny pieces-most of which are carefully crafted to fit together-and the sum total of the pieces is an exquisite, albeit an incomplete, tapestry.īy the first two pages, I was entranced by the mastery with which Murakami conveys each of the characters in The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. If I attempted to summarize Haruki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle to you, it would be as though I had plopped the pieces of an entire Liberty jigsaw puzzle in your lap.
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