That day I woke up a little late. My head still cloudy from excess of sleep, I showered, then made a cup of double-dose coffee (somehow one packet of instant coffee wasn’t enough nowadays). I sat at the lounge, absorbing caffeine and morning news. I sorted out the plan for the day: I would go to the campus sports complex for a swim. I mulled over this a little while. I was having doubts whether since the previous day had been a public holiday, so the pool might not be open. I decided I should still go, carrying some books so I could go to the library to study – that’s the contingency plan, and in any case exams were pretty near.
So I started out. It was an hour before noon but the sun was not out. It looked like it was going to rain, but my mind was already made up. On the hour-long journey, I read the book I was currently reading: a collection of short stories by Haruki Murakami. I had just finished one novel by Murakami and decided to read his other works. In no time I reached the sports complex.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the pool was open. My usual routine when I swim alone was to swim 60 lengths for endurance training. For club training, there were more sprints which can quickly exhaust you. With leisurely pace, I could usually do it under one and a half hour. As I stretched, I prepared myself mentally. The length itself was not a problem – usually the first few tens of laps feel draining all right but after that you will not feel anything much – you would even feel time is standing still, a taste of eternity, if you will. The problem was that usually my mind tends to wander and I don’t want to think about depressing things in the middle of a swim.
At the end of fourteenth lap I heard the lifeguard’s whistle. Oh no, I thought, must be lightning alert. A thunder growled far away to confirm my suspicion. I sat at a bench near the lockers and the water cooler, not sure whether to call off the swim altogether or to wait. I decided I would wait. The droplets of water started to come down. It was not particularly a heavy downpour, but it was steady and the sky was particularly dark with thunder clouds. After a few tens of minutes some of the swimmers gave up and went to shower. I waited until I was more or less dry and then picked up Murakami from the locker to read.
Murakami’s works are quite unusual, though perhaps it is that very novelty that appeals to people. Some of his works have no moral of the story. It was just an episode of someone’s life, with nothing particularly interesting that the reader should learn about or philosophical questions to think about. They rarely have conspicuous conflicts, followed by steep rising climaxes and resolve – most of the time it was flat. As someone trained in literature, I found his works refreshing.
The slices of life Murakami describe themselves may not be very interesting but his style of writing has the no-pretense, honest quality to it, his meanings not buried in complex metaphors, which only adds to its realism, the impression that the happenings may very well happen right then at someplace.
There is also quite often-recurring motif of existentialism, like you feel the you you see in the mirror is not the real you. I suppose everyone feels a little bit like that sometimes, and the way he describes it flows fluently. I do feel like that sometimes. In a swimming event, for example, I would psyche myself that the one swimming is no longer the limited I but someone else. Then the I that observes the other I will feel distant like a faraway echo of ages past.
After sometime, I arrived at Firefly. After few sentences I realised that that short story must have been the one expanded to the novel Norwegian Wood, which was the one I had read before. I hesitated for a second whether to skip the short story but I read on. As I said, Murakami’s powers lie not in the plot but in his descriptions. I re-tasted being in Watanabe Toru, though somehow this Toru felt a little different. After a while I realised that all the names of the characters were missing, as if they were still rough sketches blurred at the edges. I recalled the particular scene about the firefly, though I felt it had no real significance in the novel. In the short story, though, the firefly scene was in the spotlight and a little carried away by the story, I was swept with a wave of loneliness.
Right before the very last paragraph, I happened to look up and saw a swimmer in the pool. Apparently there was no more lightning. I replaced the bookmark and stored away the book. When I walked away from the lockers, the sky cleared up and the sun came out from its hiding place. I plunged into the water. As I glided, I saw at the bottom of the pool my own shadow tangled with brilliant strands of light.
So I started out. It was an hour before noon but the sun was not out. It looked like it was going to rain, but my mind was already made up. On the hour-long journey, I read the book I was currently reading: a collection of short stories by Haruki Murakami. I had just finished one novel by Murakami and decided to read his other works. In no time I reached the sports complex.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the pool was open. My usual routine when I swim alone was to swim 60 lengths for endurance training. For club training, there were more sprints which can quickly exhaust you. With leisurely pace, I could usually do it under one and a half hour. As I stretched, I prepared myself mentally. The length itself was not a problem – usually the first few tens of laps feel draining all right but after that you will not feel anything much – you would even feel time is standing still, a taste of eternity, if you will. The problem was that usually my mind tends to wander and I don’t want to think about depressing things in the middle of a swim.
At the end of fourteenth lap I heard the lifeguard’s whistle. Oh no, I thought, must be lightning alert. A thunder growled far away to confirm my suspicion. I sat at a bench near the lockers and the water cooler, not sure whether to call off the swim altogether or to wait. I decided I would wait. The droplets of water started to come down. It was not particularly a heavy downpour, but it was steady and the sky was particularly dark with thunder clouds. After a few tens of minutes some of the swimmers gave up and went to shower. I waited until I was more or less dry and then picked up Murakami from the locker to read.
Murakami’s works are quite unusual, though perhaps it is that very novelty that appeals to people. Some of his works have no moral of the story. It was just an episode of someone’s life, with nothing particularly interesting that the reader should learn about or philosophical questions to think about. They rarely have conspicuous conflicts, followed by steep rising climaxes and resolve – most of the time it was flat. As someone trained in literature, I found his works refreshing.
The slices of life Murakami describe themselves may not be very interesting but his style of writing has the no-pretense, honest quality to it, his meanings not buried in complex metaphors, which only adds to its realism, the impression that the happenings may very well happen right then at someplace.
There is also quite often-recurring motif of existentialism, like you feel the you you see in the mirror is not the real you. I suppose everyone feels a little bit like that sometimes, and the way he describes it flows fluently. I do feel like that sometimes. In a swimming event, for example, I would psyche myself that the one swimming is no longer the limited I but someone else. Then the I that observes the other I will feel distant like a faraway echo of ages past.
After sometime, I arrived at Firefly. After few sentences I realised that that short story must have been the one expanded to the novel Norwegian Wood, which was the one I had read before. I hesitated for a second whether to skip the short story but I read on. As I said, Murakami’s powers lie not in the plot but in his descriptions. I re-tasted being in Watanabe Toru, though somehow this Toru felt a little different. After a while I realised that all the names of the characters were missing, as if they were still rough sketches blurred at the edges. I recalled the particular scene about the firefly, though I felt it had no real significance in the novel. In the short story, though, the firefly scene was in the spotlight and a little carried away by the story, I was swept with a wave of loneliness.
Right before the very last paragraph, I happened to look up and saw a swimmer in the pool. Apparently there was no more lightning. I replaced the bookmark and stored away the book. When I walked away from the lockers, the sky cleared up and the sun came out from its hiding place. I plunged into the water. As I glided, I saw at the bottom of the pool my own shadow tangled with brilliant strands of light.
And time stood still.
