The Elephant Vanishes
Reading short stories by Haruki Murakami is like getting high. Not that I have ever smoked anything but it feels meaningless in the same way. His stories build up wonderfully. There’s so much potential. You can feel it bubbling in every line. Each twist of events, each character thought, each out-of-this-world analogy promises so much.
The lady who loses the ability to sleep finds a whole new life before her. She drives out in the middle of the night to take in some air. She stops her car by the bay and switches the engine off to relax. A hand gropes her window followed by others. Her car begins to rock. They’re trying to tip her over. She tries to start the engine. It won’t catch. She takes the key out to try again but drops it. She starts to cry. They’re trying to tip her over. She bends down to feel for her keys. It’s nowhere to be found. They’re trying to tip her over. She’s locked in her box. There's no way out. They’re trying to tip her over.
And so it ends.
Which pisses me off deeply.
It’s the climax, for crying out loud! There’s gotta be some closure to it all. But nooooooooo. It just ends. Flip the page and you’re faced with the title of the next story. Wham! Huh? What happened? Wow! I discovered the ground with my head! Druggies may be able to relate to this.
Nonetheless, I’m still chugging through The Elephant Vanishes. The first time I read this collection was roughly five years ago and I didn’t remember a thing. Which is why I borrowed it again; so I could relive the frustration of discovering the ground with my head.
Good going, Murakami.
The lady who loses the ability to sleep finds a whole new life before her. She drives out in the middle of the night to take in some air. She stops her car by the bay and switches the engine off to relax. A hand gropes her window followed by others. Her car begins to rock. They’re trying to tip her over. She tries to start the engine. It won’t catch. She takes the key out to try again but drops it. She starts to cry. They’re trying to tip her over. She bends down to feel for her keys. It’s nowhere to be found. They’re trying to tip her over. She’s locked in her box. There's no way out. They’re trying to tip her over.
And so it ends.
Which pisses me off deeply.
It’s the climax, for crying out loud! There’s gotta be some closure to it all. But nooooooooo. It just ends. Flip the page and you’re faced with the title of the next story. Wham! Huh? What happened? Wow! I discovered the ground with my head! Druggies may be able to relate to this.
Nonetheless, I’m still chugging through The Elephant Vanishes. The first time I read this collection was roughly five years ago and I didn’t remember a thing. Which is why I borrowed it again; so I could relive the frustration of discovering the ground with my head.
Good going, Murakami.
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