Book Review: Kafka on the Shore

I love reading. And most of the time I go through books like a termite on wood. After I sit down with a book, the book only gets closed after I get done with it. However, this was not the case here. It's safe to say that Kafka on the Shore is the strangest book I've ever laid my hands on. Haruki Murakami, for me, was always one of those writers, holding whose book made you a serious reader. So, as I venture into adulthood, I wanted to jump into more thought-provoking, serious-people books unlike my usual YA genre around which my interests circle. Looking back, I could never have fathomed what was ahead of me. Because this book tested me. It tested my patience. It tested my humanity. And most of all, it tested my ability to do something that I absolutely despised. In this case, it was finishing this godforsaken book.

This book has two main protagonists. We get to see inside the head of a barely 15-year-old Kafka Tamura who has run away from home to escape his fate of murdering his father and sleeping with his mother and sister, both of whom left him when he was a kid. The second character is a senile old man called Nakata, who has the ability to talk to cats. After encountering some problems, he journeys to different parts of Japan in search of what he's looking for.

And then, everything goes completely batshit crazy.

Kafka never came off as a 15-year-old boy to me. He knew everything. He knew books, he knew music, he knew ~life~ but at the same time, he didn't have answers to anything at all. His monologues felt dragged and all too unnecessary. He kept going on and on about the most unimportant things that did nothing for the advancement of the plot at all. But he isn't even the worst thing about this book because at least he knew he wanted answers. The other character Nakata knew absolutely nothing. He was going somewhere but he never knew where. He wanted something but he never knew what. This pissed me off so much I wanted to bite off my fingers so that I'd be unable to turn another page. I resisted. I resisted big time.

I really wanted to like this book. I have met scores of people who have absolutely loved this book. My question to them is- WHY? Because nothing in this book made any sense. It started off alright and I had my composure till the first 150 pages then everything went downhill. The characters were mysterious for no reason but the part that I absolutely couldn't stand was there were no answers. It never answered any of the questions. Every line was a bizarre-o metaphor. Somedays, my head actually hurt from trying to take in the book. It comes off as no surprise that this book took me SIX MONTHS to complete. 6 months is basically a century for me because I have actually read 7 books in 7 days once (disclaimer: kids, don't try this at home). This book, on the other hand, took me so long because somedays I couldn't even bear to look at it. I had to shelve it for few days at a time because the thought of reading it depressed me. I despised every moment leading to the end and I despised the end even more.

"Struggle" was a severe understatement.

In rare instances, the book was conscious of its ridiculous plot which made me rejoice.

" A really strange turn of events. It started out weird and is getting even more weirder as it goes along. Impossible to predict what comes next"

Can I get an Amen?

If you are someone who loved the book, you can call me crazy because I didn't like this book. Maybe I wanted this book to be something it's not. Maybe the underlying message of the book flew right over my head. Whatever it is, I didn't enjoy this book. About 90% of the time, it felt like I was trying to find a meaning in a rubble of nonsense. Rather than a book, it felt more like a combination of clever-sounding existentialist sentences to me. This book was clearly not for me and I, not for it. But, I think I'll give Mr. Murakami one more try before refraining from reading his works forever.

Review on Norwegian Wood to be posted shortly.

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