Everywhere one looks, people are describing this as a “simple” story. Even Murakami himself is quoted in the Note using simple to describe the story. Perhaps the lack of overtly supernatural elements so common in other translated Murakami leads to this comment. However, Norwegian Wood could not be mistaken for the work of any other writer, Murakami’s brand is everywhere in the book’s symbolism and mystery. It is also told in trademark Murakami style: utterly straightforward. Murakami rarely, if ever, resorts to explanation. His narrator, the ubiquitous Toru Watanabe, merely describes events and his attempts to understand or cope with them. And this is his greatest power. Toru’s voice is so direct, open, recognizable, and just so damn human and likeable that it is difficult to maintain any aesthetic distance.
         Death plays a heavy role in this book; there are two narrated suicides, two expository suicides, and two natural deaths: one during the action and one before. There is also one nasty fever and subsequent mysterious disappearance. As Toru says early on, trying to cope with the suicide of Kizuki, his first, best, and only friend (and the dead member of the love triangle), “Death exists–in a paperweight, in four red and white balls on a billiard table–and we go on living and breathing it into our lungs like fine dust.” (24)
         It is tempting to attempt to retell the book itself here. But it is probably best not to reveal too much of the plotting. Not that Norwegian Wood is a suspense-filled whodunit, but too much knowledge could easily reduce the masterful emotional impact Murakami creates. Suffice it to say that this is a profound story of hope, loss and connection told by one of the finest storytellers living today. The forging of strong emotional connections and the failure or loss of those connections make up Norwegian Wood's primary effect. And the opacity of motivation so common to Murakami’s characters serves to heighten the sense of loss. Much of the action can seem serendipitous, random, or unmotivated, and the reader is left wondering with Toru–especially in relation to the suicides–“What went wrong?”
         Murakami’s greatest strength is this ability to present us with the mystery inherent in life. He forces us to confront, again and again in his fiction, the fact that we don’t truly understand the reasons behind events, especially not the behavior and decisions of others. Perhaps that is why the losses in this book are so heartbreaking. Murakami is not solving the mystery of loss, or life, he is merely forcing us to recognize it. This might seem like a hard lesson he is teaching, but the knowledge that we cannot control everything in life seems incredibly useful in an increasingly hectic and confusing world. He offers no answers, no pat explanations. Murakami only shows us the facts and the character’s tactics for coping, and we must take heart in his characters’ refusal to be destroyed by these painful, imperfectly explained events.

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