THE CITY AND ITS UNCERTAIN WALLS

Another beguilingly enigmatic tale from Murakami, complete with jazz, coffee, Borgesian twists, the Beatles, and other trademark motifs.

In what is in many ways a bookend to 1Q84, Murakami blends science fiction, gothic novel, noir mystery, horror (think Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s film Pulse), and coming-of-age story. His protagonist and narrator, as the novel opens, is a 17-year-old boy aswoon in love with a 16-year-old girl. “At that time neither you nor I had names,” he sighs, and when the girl slips away, he knows too little about her to find her. Before that, though, she transports him to a walled city that’s not on any map: “Not everyone can enter. You need special qualifications to do that.” Both of them have those qualifications, the young man filling the urgently needed role of a reader of dusty and long-backlogged dreams. The girl moves on, the boy becomes a middle-aged man, and back in the real world where “silence and nothingness, as always, were my constant companions,” he abandons Tokyo for a little mountain town to become its librarian, curating real books, not dreams. There he encounters two otherworldly characters, one a neurodivergent teen, Yellow Submarine Boy, who memorizes every book he reads, whatever the subject. The other—well, as he explains, “without hesitation, I’d say that although it’s rather dated and convenient, you could call me a ghost.” Both characters point in their own ways to a fleeting world where all that matters, in the end, is love—and where love is always just out of reach. It’s an elegant fable that deftly weaves ordinary reality—“something you have to choose by yourself, out of several possible alternatives”—with a shadow world that is at once eerie and beautiful.

Astonishing, puzzling, and hallucinatory as only Murakami can be, and one of his most satisfying tales.