It is called Melancolie! I replied to her. And there it was, an incredible heartbreaking painful masterpiece by Albert Gyorgy on the affluent shores of Lake Geneva. A juxtaposition I found rather interesting.
At a distance, a raging white curtain of water gashes into the cold winter wind, rupturing into the void of a frosty sky.
Tiny moist goose bump droplets fell back into the vast emptiness of the lake below, disappearing like a pinch of salt thrown into a torrential river.
The artistic scene some how seemed divorced from reality, although reality, we know can sometimes be terribly unreal. It was a savage scene; one of creative tension, a poignant mix of a feeling we all try so hard to hide.
Across seven tales, Haruki Murakami beautifully captures this profound pain; when we stand in the midst of a transition where we cannot remain standing. A deep resonance I found similar to Gyorgy’s portrayal of his own sadness in the “hollow man”, when he lost his wife.
It’s often said the world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
In this book though you will find riveting short stories of a love-sick plastic surgeon who withers away to nothing-less, shattered actors, bartenders, ex-boyfriends, Kafta’s Gregor Samsa all struggling to find strength at the broken places, a courageous undertaking of hope that speaks to us all.
For in Murakami’s Men Without Women, just like the Melancholic art by Gyorgy, you are drawn into a no man’s land were as someone put it: “We may look as if we carry on with our lives as before. We may even have times of joy and happiness. Everything may seem “normal”. We may indulge in the occasional debauchery to fill the existential void. But THIS, “Emptiness” is how we all feel…all the time.”
“Before you even know it you’ve become Men Without Women, loneliness seeps deep down inside your body, like a red-wine stain on a pastel carpet. And you are left to live the rest of your life with the gradual spread of that color, with that ambiguous outline”.
And we might forget what it was, when the sadness finally sips into our blood stream. We could easily be made to believe that nothing happened, and yet we have changed, as a house that a guest has entered changes.
For the place you return to, just like the falling water droplets of the Jet d’eau is always slightly different from the place you left. That’s the rule. It can never be exactly the same.
The stain might fade a bit over time, but it will remain, as a stain, until the day you draw your final breath. For in that world you are called “Men Without Women.” Always a relentlessly frigid plural.
Haruki Murakami’s writing is definitely an acquired taste. Slow, deliberate and highly captivating, he passionately swirls the painful thoughts and suffering of his fictional characters, like a master sommelier. With a soulful touch of wit and a profound philosophical poignancy. It is hard to let go, when you start on this one. Really Enjoyed!
amarragroup.com 