By Haruki Murakami
Born in 1951 in an prosperous Tokyo suburb, Hajime—beginning in Japanese—has arrived at center age short of for nearly not anything. The postwar years have introduced him a good marriage, daughters, and an enviable occupation because the owner of 2 jazz golf equipment. but a nagging experience of inauthenticity approximately his good fortune threatens Hajime’s happiness. And a boyhood reminiscence of a sensible, lonely woman named Shimamoto clouds his center.
In South of the Border, West of the Sun, the easy arc of a man’s life—with its attendant rhythms of luck and disappointment—becomes the beautiful literary terrain of Haruki Murakami’s such a lot haunting paintings. whilst Shimamoto indicates up one wet evening, now a wide ranging attractiveness with a mystery from which she is not able to flee, the fault traces of doubt in Hajime’s quotidian life start to cave in. And the main points of stolen moments prior and present—a Nat King Cole melody, a face pressed opposed to a window, a handful of ashes drifting downriver to the sea—threaten to undo him thoroughly. wealthy, mysterious, quietly stunning, South of the Border, West of the Sun is Haruki Murakami’s wisest and so much compelling paintings.
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Extra info for South of the Border, West of the Sun: A Novel
In February I sailed through all the college entrance exams and was slated to move to Tokyo at the end of March. Before I left town, I called her, over and over. But she wouldn’t come to the phone. I wrote her long letters, waiting in vain for a reply. I can’t just leave like this, I thought I can’t just leave her here. But there was nothing I could do. Izumi wanted nothing to do with me.
It looked like it might rain at any minute. We were all alone. It was completely still. I’d never known the roof to be so silent. Our school was on a hilltop, and we had an unboken view of the town and the sea. Once, my friends and I filched some records from the Broadcast Club room and flung them off the roof–like Frisbees, they sailed away in a beautiful arc. Off toward the harbor they flew, happily, as if life were breathed into them for a fleeting instant. But finally one of them failed to get airborne and wobbled clumsily straight down onto the tennis court, where some startled freshman girls were practicing their swings.
But in reality I couldn’t say these kinds of things. That’s why I lied—repeatedly. I’d make up some excuse to break a date with her, then zip on down to Kyoto to ball her cousin. There was no getting around it—I was the one to blame. Izumi found out about us near the end of January, not long after my eighteenth birthday. In February I sailed through all the college entrance exams and was slated to move to Tokyo at the end of March. Before I left town, I called her, over and over. But she wouldn’t come to the phone.