I had so much invested by this time that I was prepared to indulge a little silliness. I was soon immersed in this story, rolling with it even when, in a secondary strand, relating to a “stupid” old man called Nakata (who also experienced something strange in his childhood), cats started talking. Trying to escape from your family, from family stories that you are afraid you are doomed to repeat.” As a Reading group contributor called Valérie Bergeron wrote: “the book seemed to capture perfectly the feeling of being lost and trying to find your place in the world. One of the two story strands, relating to the teenage runaway Kafka Tamura, started off with real urgency as Murakami skilfully planted hints about his dark past, and ramped up the mystery about why he was running and where he might end up. Last week, I quoted a David Mitchell review predicting the novel would have “besotted devotees … critical admirers and people who come out in a nasty rash.” In the space of a week’s reading, I’ve felt like all three. But I also find the book infuriating, meandering and, so far anyway, empty. I’ve read enough to know that I’m in the hands of a supremely talented writer, a master storyteller and one with bright visual flair and access to dark and deliciously disturbing imagery. I’m just over halfway through Kafka on the Shore and I have a burning question: what is this shit? Here, I can hope to escape such long-term embarrassment by claiming that the thoughts I am about to set down are transitory, impressionistic and I may contradict them next week.Īnd now that I’ve tried to cover my back, let’s get down to business.

Murakami on the shore