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Greg Glasgow's review of Sputnik Sweetheart
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Brautigan meets Chandler:A jazzy, lonely love story from Japan

by Greg Glasgow?

It may be thanks in large part to his translators, but Japanese writer Haruki Murakami's style — somewhere between the hard-boiled detective fiction of Raymond Chandler and the linguistic whimsy of Richard Brautigan — is one of the most distinctive in contemporary literature and is slowly gaining him a cult following in America.

Murakami proved his mastery of the long book form with 1998's 607-page "The Wind Up Bird Chronicle"; his latest, "Sputnik Sweetheart," is closer in length and tone to "Norwegian Wood," originally released in Japan in 1987 and reissued late last year.

As in "Wood," "Sputnik Sweetheart's" first-person narrator is the type of intelligent, artistic loner Murakami describes so well. In this case, it's K, a 20-something schoolteacher who has affairs with the mothers of his students. An interesting twist in "Sweetheart" is that K spends most of the book telling the story of another character, Sumire, a female friend he tries unsuccessfully to seduce. It isn't until the book's climax — when Sumire mysteriously vanishes from a Greek island — that K becomes a central figure in the plot.

In the meantime, Sumire, a budding novelist who has never had more than a scientific interest in sex, falls in love with another woman — much to her surprise. Miu is an older, experienced wine importer who hires Sumire as her assistant. The relationship between the two develops slowly, but when they take a vacation together, Sumire disappears. Miu enlists K's help in finding her, and what he discovers — partly through two essays on Sumire's computer — is a bizarre tale of Miu's past and new revelations about Sumire, both related in a style bordering on magical realism.

As with most Murakami books, "Sputnik Sweetheart" is at its heart a tale of loneliness and isolation disguised as a breezy love story. The title refers to the Russian satellite and the dog, Laika, who was the first living creature ever sent into space: "The dark, lustrous eyes of the dog gazing out the tiny window. In the infinite loneliness of space, what could the dog possibly be looking at?"

Throughout the very readable book, Murakami's characteristic touches are evident, from outrageous similes ("... the clatter of the ice cubes echoed hollowly, like the groans of a robber hiding in a cave") to musical and literary references (Jack Kerouac, Dizzy Gillespie, Vladimir Horowitz's monaural recordings of Chopin). The jazz allusions are especially apropos, as finishing a Murakami book leaves you with a feeling similar to listening to an accomplished jazz soloist: you're moved in the moment, You're slightly awed — and only in retrospect do you realize how much work must have gone into making the whole thing feel so effortless.

The Daily Camera
June 17, 2001