The book jacket recommends The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle as "dreamlike and compelling" which I initially understood as cliche review talk. But several hundreds of pages in, I realized I really did felt compelled to read it, compelled during work, compelled on the subway, compelled during any free moment at home.

As a Chronicle, and a meta-aware one at that, part of the compulsion results from not knowing what the hell will happen next. In three "books", a chronological recording of daily events slips into an out-of-order, out-of-narrator's-field-of-vision controlled orgy. The book moves, notoriously, from banal episodes of cooking pasta, searching for a lost cat and dull domestic chats to unsyncopated sliced plot randomness - anonymous sex-calls (desire), visits from Manchurian veterans (memory), the disappearance of the protagonist's wife and subsequent appearance of at least five memorable, distinct, bizarre characters - a "cheerfully morbid" teenaged girl, a set of sensual psychic sisters, and a mother-son team of healers, one of whom does not speak a word - to finally, battling mythical-real creations, dreamt lucidly in a haunted-comforting well (or are they?). The narrative tone remains tranquil, logical and sound throughout.

This sort of magical realism reminded me of Marquez, but the novel has a distinctly Japanese tone. Descriptions of environment (the cawing of the wind-up bird) underlines action and pivotal points reflect the imperialist (and defeated) political history unique to Japan, from the bombing of Nagasaki to the forgotten, crushing campaign in mainlain China and Mongolia against Soviet forces. What is the fate of a country? What is the fate of a man? What is the range of this book sitting placidly in your hand?

In this case, a likeable thirty year old Everyman (as he's been cast), one Toru Okado with an almost freakish amptitude for following strange requests from his wife, and his new compatriots, is just trying to find a little direction after quitting his lame paralegal job. Sometimes a person needs to slow down entirely to see where to go. I could be convinced of the Buddhist undertones of this notion, although I must say, I would really love to read a critical analysis which could contextualize and develop these piercing hints, dropped like so many breadcrumbs. I don't know, maybe Toru Okado should tell his story in a novel, etc.

Muraki develops memorable characters, to say the least. Though the book is written in first person (or maybe because of it), others' motivations are almost never fleshed out, are almost crap shoots in a dramatic, unseen fate. Everyone is imbued with a sense of mystery. The "dreamlike" component of the book plays out on the streets this way. I'm having a hard time articulating the strength of the characterization, especially when I must point out the similarities between some, purposely meshing into another, a most enchanting connection between the young man who does not speak and the narrator.

There were slow parts, but as in The Name of the Rose, these philosophic, or mostly in this case, historical digressions create a constellation of meaning. As the main character in the book, the reader is faced with piecing together disparate symbols for an underlying satisfying, if somewhat frustrating experience. I've read a few reviews after I turned the last page (still in a dreamline cogitation for closure) which criticize Murakami for dropping the ball at the end, for not fully "wrapping up" the loose ends, for even conning the reader. I think it presses us to find our own meaning, to be wrapped in the enigma of the everyday we are presented when we put the book down, when we return to the fiction of reality as we know it.