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A very old-school approach to proper grammar and punctuation, more than a century in the making, that appears to be designed for telegrams and other typewritten texts where superfluous words were an expense to be avoided. Strunk’s rules may be commonsensical and concise, but still rely on a rigid preference that is at odds with the click-send-and-forget-it instant communications many prefer to use for this century.

The ancient divination practice gets a fresh take by the translator Blofeld, who pays respect to the Wilhelm translation while still promoting his easier-to-use edition. His introduction goes into great detail about the ritual and historical commentary, with an outsider’s knowledge of China that is a little more inside than the Western audience for whom he writes. Ready to consult each page to learn how to proceed!

What might have seemed like a good idea more than a decade ago, Jung looking into the psychological motivations behind the belief in flying saucers, led to increasingly frustrating misunderstandings. The letters he wrote are well composed, but have that hint of desperation for his recipients not to make him a pariah of the professional researchers by assuming that his curiosities are an endorsement of parapsychology.

The active imaginations of artists and authors lend support to Jung’s inquiry into Ufos that may not actually exist, but represent a projection of the need for a societal change following two world wars. Less about spinning discs in the sky, painting that depict another dimension or novels about a higher intelligence passing by our planet have more to say about the inner journey than a question of who is out there.

The titular story sums up the whole modus operandi of Murakami’s writing and the purpose most everyday readers taking on his stories: to be the well-dressed man in the unfamiliar bar mirror. Unexpectedly, you are confronted by an uncomfortable truth about your past, and suddenly the world changes around you. All you can do is wonder who was that other version of yourself, staring back at you in the mirror or pages.

Probably as close as readers will get to an autobiography appearing in a short story collection, so maybe not so nonfictional, but a detailed account of his youth watching baseball, continuing into adulthood. No pining after some girl or lengthy discussion of his record collection, so, but often he does even seem to trust himself to write down why he felt one way about a particular pastime or if his poems are poetry.

An intriguing conversation with a married woman who has an ugly monkey on her back, this short story is refreshingly focused on a moment in time. And like the evil-spirit face under the angel’s mask, it suddenly flashes back to the jazz-obsessed youth of yet another guy whose interaction with one more not-so-attractive woman ends up going nowhere. At least F* made off with a lot of loot even if she faced the music.

What passes for intrigue, watchers waiting for something to happen, is a mere confusion of forgotten motives. In the midst of all these non-events, Florence works up the nerve to fly from her father and get hitched to the mysteriously returned Walter. Her sudden assertiveness ripples out to all supporting circles, and only Mr Dombey left alone, stuck in his indifference, as the rest of the world receives this change.

Refreshing to have another reoccurring character continue his story, especially when it is someone different from a thinly disguised version of Murakami. Here the nameless monkey ends up working at a hot spring resort in Gunma, willing to share details of his personal life with a Harukish guest. While the monkey habit of stealing names remains the dopamine hit to possess a woman’s inner nature, it is his pure love.

They can’t all be winners, it seems, and right from the editorial note and preface both McGuire and Jung point out how the media got the message mixed up and claimed Jung was a believer when he strives to examine the modern myth. It doesn’t help his case that this paperback is poorly printed with too narrow margins cutting off the text’s edge. I should’ve held out for his
Civilization In Transition!

The wandering thoughts of s short story author, in another vaguely autobiographical account of girls and pop culture. The Beatles figure as wallpaper, with only details of an album cover and a couple track listings. Of course, the narrator is more into jazz (big surprise!) and his easy-listening high school girlfriend is barely a presence yet her older brother has a more meaningful relationship twice in twenty years.

A literary prank by a college journalist turns into a fleeting glimpse of what might have been a posthumous crossover album, and finally a dream solo concert for the author who may or may not have been the actual Murakami. The protagonist insists that it all happened as he recorded it, but this troublesome first-person narration covers all sorts of sins and omissions. No wonder the college press folded by issue four!

The subtle, numinous simplicity of the stories start to sink in (just discovered the circle riddle from “Cream”) and for a guy ruminating over a nearly forgotten causal fling, there are some haunted words and Tanka imagery to put one in touch with the wider universe. Of course, being a Murakami guy, perhaps the guy Murakami himself deciding not to become a novelist, the word that matters is someone else’s name.

A short section to describe the endless hours of Josie ailing in her bed, prompting Klara to make one more promise to the Sun. The world that Rick has won, Chrissie claims, is full of disease and inequality whether one gets lifted or stays close to the overgrown grasses. The bright orange sunlight in Josie’s room brings the section to a close, almost as if the setting Sun caused a storm specifically to say goodbye.

Am I ready to launch into the aimless narration so soon after Blind Willow, Sleeping Women? The opening story “Cream” has all the hallmarks of Murakami’s quixotic writing: an unnamed protagonist, detailed account of events that don’t really matter, and an open ended question that seems to share insights, but in reality would only make a listener like his younger friend more frustrated than awestruck.

While still set in a vaguely troubled future, the novel’s theme takes on a Jane Austen air of unfulfilled promise on the characters’ trip to the big city: the class distinctions between Chrissie and Helen are more apparent, the sitting of Josie’s “portrait” and an indignant person-of-influence Vance, all could have happened with pianofortes in the rooms and carriage-like Cooting Machines out on the streets.

The plot thickens as boxes make way for bubbles, even as Josie and Rick’s game involves some sharp edges. Klara keeps a safe distance, just close enough to prevent any hanky panky. But her meeting with the setting Sun soon gives her resolve to save Josie by becoming an ecoterrorist. Hope those Cooting Machines don’t serve a vital civic function. Also, where are all the dads in this sick and overgrown rural world?

The artificial gaze, Klara’s habit of scanning the room or world beyond the windscreen, puts everything in a series of boxes. Yet, there are some dynamics that don’t fit squarely inside, such as the unspoken hostility between peers and parents. Josie’s illness may just be a passing thing or a symptom of the toxic world she inhabits. Klara is learning about new things, the good and bad, that exist under the sun.

One important observation about Klara, with so much uncertainty about times and intentions, is that she knows her place. No matter where the Manager places her around the store, she takes whatever comes her way without causing too much trouble. Josie, her new friend, seems to know that trouble will be a part of their life together. Not sure what’s up with the Sun but at least Klara will soon get to see him setting.

Ice, crabs, flag, firefly: are they each a metaphor or not? If so, how? If not, what else? The stories and titles stray further apart, and it is only with the most abstract title “Chance Traveler” that we get a first- and third-person narrative, sharing a common thread of coincidence. Is traveler another word to ponder over? Still, Murakami steps out his hetero zone with his only gay character I’ve read so far.

The final three chapters are less of a tour of drama’s impact on the world, rather focused studies of why the Suzuki Method evolved in Toga Mura. Traditional theatre practice informed by architecture and family structures hint at the spiritual power of rural villages that has more to say about what needs to change in contrast to the enforced conformity of big cities. And the theatre world responds in the interview.

Waxing poetically about the things that sustain man and beast alike: friendship, food, clothes, money. These short stories hint at a few other intangible qualities that eat away at us as we consume our collectibles. Tony has the most at stake, what with his wayward father’s record collection and his dress-obsessed wife, the only thing you can do with such excess is let it all go, or else the crows are gonna getcha!

The latter two Documents are as fantastical as they are far removed from the Grey Gentlemen with which Morrow concludes his study. Takenouchi suggests biblical figures ended up in Japan, Katakamuna sings of Ashiyan quantum theorists, and in many mysterious ways, these texts tells an origin tale in an ahistorical context. It is not so much our modern task to know which got it right but rather accept that each is true.

It is impressive yet not entirely surprising how prescient Suzuki’s writing seems from the vantage point of a few decades ago, yet accurately pinpoints the many troubles of the modern world, up to this digital moment. His sense of place and purpose is grounded in the dramatic legacy of classic playwrights, yet his talent to reinvent the plays of Euripides and Shakespeare finds resonance beyond his lonely Toga-mura.

Having only a week’s worth of introductory training in the Suzuki method (along with SITI’s Viewpoints), I merely scratched the surface of Tadashi’s deep reverence for traditional, modern and absurd forms of theatre. One impression still felt years later, as illustrated in the titular article, is stomping of my feet on the ground, taking a more ritualistic connection to the Shinto practices that Suzuki retains.

The mysterious circumstances for which these ancient texts are preserved yet barely acknowledged academically may raise some red flag among antiquarians, but Morton’s breezy description of the legends and ethics found in these obscure documents unravel a deeper understanding of Japan’s history and almost pre-literate modernism. Great analogy to compare Hotsuma Tsutaye/em> to Joyce’s Finnegans Wake.

The stories start to venture into strange animal parables, almost as if they were b-sides from the The Elephant Vanishes with a bossy bird and nasty cats—I’ll soon get around to reading that other collection to find they are really about adulterous whiskey-drinkers, par for Murakami’s course. A most peculiar species is the shape-shifting poor aunt whose presence and absence remain an elaborate mystery,

The next set of short stories takes a while to get into the story parts, yet the preamble nicely builds tension, as it reaches a perfect pitch for “The Mirror” and makes “A Perfect Day for Kangaroos” seem more like a question than a statement. “Folklore” takes it leisurely time yo tell its tale, like two estranged classmates in Italy, while “Hunting Knife” cuts a sudden slice at the end of a vacation.

The exiled Pandavas seem to thrive without the burden of leading others, despite some hot tempers that drive a few warriors off on side missions. According to their close kin Kauravas, the kingdom was better off without them for almost thirteen years. Due to a technicality, war has become inevitable even with Krishna’s ambiguous support for both families; these hardened hearts will cause the whole country to bleed.

Difficult to determine an exact date for these short stories, but they all display telltales of Murakami’s novice skill: meandering thoughts of some gormless young guy, a stalled romance with someone else’s gal, and a title that is extremely incidental to the plot. Even “Birthday Girl” is really about an interlocutor who couldn’t quite figure out what was on the titular girl’s mind when she made her wish.