Writing this a few hours after actually finishing the book may not be that much of a good idea, because the roller coaster that Murakami just sent me in was an unsettling one. And as with most roller coaster rides, it left me reeling, either from nervousness or excitement, still not sure whether my body wants to throw up or not.
Anyway, what the hell did I just read?
The story, a basic nothing-new unrequited love story between a plain run-of-the-mill teacher guy and a writer girl beyond common conventions transforms into a supernatural alternate-realities mystery case. The keyword is definitely “mystery”, because the narrative requires a certain level of enigma from particular unanswerable devices to pump the story forward. Although in the “mystery” aspect, I felt the piece quite lacking.
Well, maybe the problem with how I read Sputnik Sweetheart was because I treated it as what I thought it was, a mystery; as I tried to piece together different aspects of the story to make logical sense of Sumire’s disappearance.
But Murakami wasn’t intending for a mystery at all.
Instead of posing a problem with an intended and a settled solution somewhere along and in between the written lines, he was asking all his readers a trick question. Kind of like how when you encounter a math problem in a test and all the answers you come up with aren’t in the choices, Murakami pulled the chair underneath me and didn’t intend to provide an answer after all.
Maybe the whole chair-pulling thing was the reason the book made me feel a little scammed, especially because of the misguided perspective I decided to traverse the narrative from. I was bridging together different pieces of evidence and clues, when I should have been just appreciating the spectacle. Maybe I would have enjoyed it more that way. Maybe I would have been less confused.
In regards to the story, lackluster is how I’d describe the plot and pacing of the whole shebang. Though the narrative isn’t bland (it certainly is unique), and the premise is malleable enough to amplify a skilled writer’s prowess, Sputnik Sweetheart trips on its own tail because the idea the story anchors itself on was not given enough time to properly blossom.
For most of the book, Miu, Sumire’s love interest, is built up to be this transcendent ideal individual with an enigmatic aura and a mysterious past. Miu’s image is godlike, the way other characters perceive her is in fascination, yet the reveal of what happened in her past, which I’d argue to be the best part of the book, though shocking, gripping, engaging, and surreal, was robbed of its potential impact because of its hellish punctuality. Like a powerful knockout blow delivered too late in a boxing match, the climactic reveal that turns the story over its head fails to retain its impact because there is simply no follow-up.
The end is too abrupt.
The loose strings of the story are singed so they stop flowing. And I get it, it’s Murakami’s way of making the book less of an untethered fantasy love story, and more of a vague and ambiguous tale of realistic relationships. The cards fall where they land, and Murakami leaves it that way, intentionally open to interpretation. I would have only appreciated it if Murakami gave me more time to hold the cards and feel them in my hands for myself before dispassionately throwing them into the air.
And Murakami’s writing style is certainly intriguing. On one hand, he has a talent for incredibly long monologues filled with metaphors that empower the reader’s imagination to a heightened sense of immersion.
Like a seasoned writer, his words can make you feel what he wants you to feel without forcing it down your throat or pulling out cheap tricks. On the other, Murakami’s own talent is also his own undoing, at least for this book.
Yes, sometimes Murakami drops an incredible analogy about love, attachment, and dreams. But for every good metaphor he comes up with, I had to wade through paragraphs of inconsequence.
The characters themselves were written fairly well, though none of them particularly stand out as excellent. Which, I guess, is sadly reminiscent of real life. The island where most of the intensity takes place is intentionally unnamed, which is a great touch so there’s limited room for preconceived notions to taint the landscape. Sumire’s conflict with her own sexuality didn’t bother me at all, but the exhaustive attention and fixation the book itself seemingly allocates in treating with her sexuality (and sex in general) was a little bit irking. I don’t know, maybe it’s a culture thing.
This is the first Murakami book I’ve read, and I know it won’t be the last, but if the author is as good as I’ve heard him to be, then this certainly isn’t his best product. By no means is Sputnik Sweetheart a bad book but given more pages to explore the story's various nuances, it could have been immensely better.
Giving this book four Greek islands out of ten. Not a must-buy, but a fun enough read to finish.
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