Usually, I breeze through reading a Murakami, especially when it came to my favorites (i.e. after dark, A Wild Sheep Chase, The Elephant Vanishes, etc.) 1Q84 is probably the only exception. I find myself skipping entire paragraphs, sometimes even pages. It was rare that the pace of the story was fast - it was like primera going to segunda, and back to primera again.
I think one of the reasons for this is the sheer length of the book. It's too long. I've read reviews that 1Q84 is the culmination of the themes and ploys Murakami often used in his stories, and I am inclined to agree, but the length of it is just waaaaaay too long for me. I recall that this was released in Japan in three parts. If this happened for the English release, then maybe it would overcome my primera-segunda-primera feeling.
I finally felt that the story break through the primera-segunda-primera monotony when Aomame met Leader and Tengo had that night with Fuka-Eri (am trying my best not to spoil), but when that was over, it went back to segunda, and, yeah - primera. I don't mind the emotional dynamic of the story, but once you go tercera, or cuarta, it's quite difficult to go back to primera after you have built the story up to such heights - unless you have a pretty darn good reason for doing it. In the other Murakami books I've read, once it reached a climax, it didn't go back to a relaxing pace - you're always wary that something else might come up. I don't get the same intensity thus far with this book (at page 783). Sure, there is a sense of discomfort, but not enough to induce page-turning. In other words, you can procrastinate. Nothing makes me more enthusiastic about a novel than the feeling that it must be finished with a sense of urgency.
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I've been working on something the past two days. It's kind of rough, but I'm satisfied with it for now. :-) Mabuti na yung may nasulat kesa sa wala. I think this is my first [finished] short story. YAAAAAY. (Ye gads if you saw how many unfinished stuff I have on the computer or on the notebook...le sigh)
I don't think it merits a warning, but if underage smoking would suffice, then...yeah. XD
"What is it with cigarettes anyway?"
She grew up in a family where smoking was hardly taboo. In her tender age, she knew that it was bad for a person's health - the government warnings on TV stated it clearly enough. Nevertheless, there was something about that long, thin thing called a cigarette - a word she still needed help in spelling correctly. To the world at large, it was wrong; but for the world she was in - one that revolved around school, home, and the school bus - it was acceptable. The big people, whom she was supposed to be modeling herself after, were doing it persistently. If they were doing it, then it must be right. If that was so, then why were there warnings? The nuns at school, and the priest with his arms outstretched during holy mass taught that wrong was wrong and right was right. There shouldn't be any dilemma, and yet, the hard, thick line between wrong and right was hazy.
She learned how to smoke with her senses. She knew that the lips are pursed on one end of the cigarette, the other end was lit with a match. The end that was lighted didn't burn up the same way as paper would, for she herself tried rolling paper and lighted one end up, with dreadful results. She also knew that one had to suck in from the end that was in the mouth, like how one would do with a straw to drink juice out of a doy pack. After this, a cloud of smoke was exhaled. She knew that cigarettes were not made the same - a Marlboro is not a Winston. A Marlboro Green is different from a Marlboro Red. She hated the green type; the red, however, had a smell that she found wanting.
It was wrong, and yet it could be right. Where was the line between right and wrong? "What is it with cigarettes anyway?" She pursed her lips and toyed with her hands, soiled with crayons as she looked at the unattended pack of Marlboro Red.
Nobody can see me.
But it's wrong.
Everyone is doing it, so I can.
But it's wrong.
One stick wouldn't hurt.
But it's wrong.
I haven't lighted a match before...
Bravely, she took the pack, which was halfway empty, pulled out one stick, snatched the matchbox, and scurried off. Along the way, she spotted a pair of scissors, which she took along with a page from yesterday's newspaper that had an unfinished crossword puzzle. She went where she wouldn't be found. For an hour or so, at least.
She looked at the stick, focusing her eyes on it. When something was wrong, she learned that she would be able to see hints of it. But even as she twirled the stick around, it seemed harmless. The end that was put in the mouth was soft like foam. An adult told her that it was called a filter. The only filter she knew before that was the one that was in the aircon unit, which kept the dust from entering the room when it was turned on. Filters were supposed to be dirty things - the aircon man that came to their house always took out a dirty filter from the aircon. This kind of filter wasn't dirty. At least, not yet.
The other end, she saw, was brown and had tiny particles in it that looked like dried grass. She could sense a faint aroma. She inhaled this end, and her eyes went wide - this was the smell that she had been attracted to. But good smells, she thought, were supposed to come from good things. Good comes from good. She thought of flowers that she often colored in her coloring book, and the flowers that she saw in school. These were good things. The brown stuff, which the world at-large says was bad, was contradicting this clear-cut idea.
In her head, she tried to search for the hard, thick line again. All she could see was right and wrong merging, but not fully, into one whole, with an uneven line, or something that was mimicking a line but had failed.
The brown particles interested her the most. With her scissors at hand, she gingerly cut off the stick until where the filter started. The severed end fell down on the unfolded newspaper she had laid out. Some of the brown stuff came out of the side. She realized that they were tiny leaves. Her eyes widened with excitement at what she had discovered. Gingerly, she cut through it lengthwise until all of the leaves rolled on the cigarette fell out. She stared at them thoughtfully, picked a few leaves and rubbed them in between her fingers, ascertaining their feel. She collected the leaves on one palm and brought it to her nose and took one deep breath.
A grimace formed on her face. The smell that drew her in was there, but with the leaves altogether it was overpowering. She threw them down on the newspaper, and patted the palm that once held it on her shirt. For the first time, she saw something in the cigarette that was definitely in the realm of wrong.
There was one thing that she had not done, and it probably should have been the first thing that she had done since she got the cigarette - she had to light it up. But the one stick she got was in pieces. There was no way she could do it properly. But, her little mind started to work. The adults only lit up the end where the leaves were. So, if I light these up, she thought as she looked on the leaves scattered on the newspaper, and smell it, then it could be the same as with lighting up a cigarette.
So, she gathered up all the leaves until she made a small mound. Then, hesitatingly, she took the matchbox and pulled out a match. She saw the big people do it. They would scratch the red end on the side of the box, and it would light up. She was afraid of fire, but without fire, there would be no light, and her quest of finding out whether this was right or wrong would not reach its end.
With her eyes closed, and match head resting on the box side, she struck the match hard. A crackling sound - one that made the hairs on her arms stand on end - made her discern that she may have done it as it should be. She opened her eyes - the match was lit. Quickly, she brought it to the mound of leaves that she made, and it lit up without effort, creating a small, yet steady flame. She immediately put out the match, closed in on the small pyre and, like what she had seen more than a hundred times and secretly rehearsed in her head, took a deep breath, inhaled the smoke, and exhaled.
In her mind, the line between wrong and right had emerged, hard and thick, but her feet were planted firmly on opposite sides.
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