I still remember, years ago, renting the DVD of Norwegian Wood with my ex. We didn’t finish it. We couldn’t make sense of it, didn’t find it appealing. And so, Murakami’s world slipped past me, unnoticed.
A few years later, I was at a bookstore with a friend. “I’m going to Japan next week,” she said. “I want to bring a Japanese novel to read on the trip.” We stood by the Japanese fiction section as I pointed out the few titles I’d heard of or read, giving brief introductions to each. “I’ve heard Norwegian Wood is about the confusion of youth,” I said. That seemed to resonate with her, so she bought it.
Curious, I started reading Norwegian Wood myself. Murakami’s prose is magnetic—once you begin, it’s hard to stop. His characters, though distant and eccentric, felt eerily familiar. Watanabe’s solitude, Midori’s mischief, Naoko’s melancholy, and Nagasawa’s arrogance—they all reminded me of people who had crossed my path.
I’ve been lucky to meet a few Watanabes in my life—those who love books, music, films, and solitary adventures. They see the world differently and resist it gently, almost imperceptibly, because they know that living life is no less important than chasing dreams or passions.
And perhaps, in many ways, I’m most like Midori. Her peculiar behaviour, her sharp retorts—they make perfect sense to me. She’s not hard to understand, really. She’s simply a girl who grew up too fast, forced to confront loneliness and disappointment, yet refuses to conform. She’s stubborn, witty, and views the world as a joke, because her life often feels like one. But this so-called worldview is, in truth, her armour.
"What I’m chasing is simply whimsy. Pure whimsy."
"For some people, love begins with something small, even trivial."
Beneath Midori’s capriciousness lies a fragile heart, as though her entire world might crumble if someone were to see through her façade. When Watanabe cared for her ailing father, she was truly moved for the first time. (The film didn’t do justice to Midori’s character; perhaps they didn’t fully grasp her inner world.)
Murakami’s books consumed me. In two weeks, I devoured five of them. Slowly, my mood grew heavier, my temper sharper. His writing acted like an amplifier, magnifying every emotion—good or bad—and forcing me to confront them. Friends warned me: “Murakami is dangerous. Read something else for a while.”
Those who call Murakami “dangerous” are often the ones who love him most, people more Watanabe-like than anyone else I’ve met. Our thoughts, our hearts—they’re all written into his pages. How could we not read him? How could we not love him?
Thank you, Watanabe, for understanding Midori’s sorrow.
They say Watanabe is Murakami himself (the book is written in the first person), and Midori was inspired by his wife.
In the forest of Norway, we will always be together.
A new playlist inspired by Norwegian Wood is in the works. Stay tuned.
