I've gotten around to reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, by Haruki Murakami finally. It has been on my to-read book list for years now. I think it is really exceptional so far (still have about 1/3 left).
I keep finding myself thinking about the fact that it was originally written in Japanese. So many of the passages are exacting to experiences or thoughts I have had. Like someone finally put words to it in just the right way. Like this one:
“I decided to make spaghetti for lunch again. Not that I was the least
bit hungry. But I couldn't just go on sitting on the sofa, waiting for
the phone to ring. I had to move my body, to begin working toward some
goal. I put water in a pot, turned on the gas, and until it boiled I
would make tomato sauce while listening to an FM broadcast. The radio
was playing an unaccompanied violin sonata by Bach. The performance
itself was excellent, but there was something annoying about it. I
didn't know whether this was the fault of the violinist or of my own
present state of mind, but I turned off the music and went on cooking in
silence. I heated the olive oil, put garlic in the pan, and added
minced onions. When these began to brown, I added the tomatoes that I
had chopped and strained. It was good to be cutting things and frying
things like this. It gave me a sense of accomplishment that I could feel
in my hands. I liked the sounds and the smells.”
The way he switches from the empty act of cooking to his semi-conscious thoughts about the music to a reflection at the end is so true to actually living in that moment.
I wish I could read the book in Japanese because I keep wondering how two languages that have different structures and words could relay the same feeling to a reader. But maybe its even better in Japanese? But that seems hard to imagine, the words seem so well picked. I guess what I keep turning over in my mind is how universal the human experience is even when miles and languages should make it seem more distant.
Which ultimately brings me back to painting and a particular painting I keep looking at recently. Its a Fairfield Porter and it conjures up a feeling in me that has no english equivalent I'm aware of. I guess nostalgia is the word closest, but its nostalgia without the sickening, sweetness. It's the way looking at a summer night sky, something supposedly ordinary strikes a sublime chord and makes it feel like a lightbulb is in your stomach.
Someone sent me
this link to words with no english equivalent a while back. And the Japanese word "aware" stood out to me, the article says it means "the bittersweetness of a brief and grading moment of transcendent beauty." Maybe english is just too dry to contain all that in a single word, or maybe it exists and my vocabulary isn't good enough. But either way I am thankful that paintings and visual experiences need no translation. Nothing is lost or mitigated when looking.
But even if something gets lost in translating The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle there is enough power in it to overcome the gap and express that universal transcendent beauty. Highly recommend it.
