“Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage” by Haruki Murakami

I first became captivated by Haruki Murakami’s work in high school. Around the same time, I was also obsessed with ASIAN KUNG-FU GENERATION, a well-known Japanese rock band. In middle school, I preferred foreign rock bands, but by high school, I had turned my attention to Japanese rock. Looking back now, maybe it’s typically the other way around. Regardless, ASIAN KUNG-FU GENERATION—commonly abbreviated as “Ajikan” in Japanese—was a cornerstone of my youth. My love for them is a topic for another time. 

During that period, biking to the library after school became a routine. One day, as I browsed the Japanese literature section, I noticed something: there was a Murakami novel with the same title as one of Ajikan’s songs, After Dark. That moment began my Murakami journey, which continued throughout high school. Now, as an adult, I’ve returned to read one of his books again, this time drawn in by a casual recommendation on the Kindle Store. “Oh, it’s Haruki Murakami. And this title is pretty long,” I thought to myself, and before I knew it, I had bought it. I finished reading it on February 9, 2021, and even on a quick re-read, I can vividly recall the impressions I had when I first finished it, along with some new thoughts that I’d like to share here.

Upon reading it the first time, I realized something significant: in this world, even expressing one’s own sadness seems to require a kind of silent permission. This is such a complex idea that I want to quote a line from the book to explain it further.

By coincidence, or maybe not, all five were children of ‘upper-middle-class’ suburban families.

In very casual terms, all five of the main characters in this story are “kids from good families.” People like them, who are raised well and seem to live trouble-free lives, are assumed by others to follow a predictable path. They attend good schools, land stable jobs, marry, have kids, and buy a home to settle down. They lead a stable life that looks calm and smooth from the outside. That’s the stereotypical lens society uses to see them. I might have unconsciously looked at them through that same lens too, assuming, “These people must not have any real struggles.”

But this book taught me otherwise. After all, as human beings, everyone—no matter who they are or where they come from—faces challenges. That’s a given. This is certainly true of the main character, Tsukuru Tazaki, who suffers deeply throughout the novel, beginning with the suicidal thoughts he experiences after being abruptly cut off from a close-knit group of friends. This exclusion is, of course, part of the reason for his suffering. But it seems that there is another major reason: he was placed in a “package” labeled “someone who hasn’t suffered,” and he unknowingly accepted this label. There is also a quiet but weighty envy woven into that package—a belief that someone like him isn’t supposed to feel hardship.

People often prefer simple, straightforward stories. We like stories with clear arcs—beginning, middle, and end. There’s a sense of comfort in these narratives. In this way, most “dramas” are categorized into two broad types: the fallen aristocrat and the self-made success story. In both cases, their significant achievements evoke envy from the audience. But their respective arcs—either the fall or the climb—evoke sympathy and understanding, allowing them to ultimately be loved.

But for someone in a more middling position—like Tsukuru Tazaki—their suffering and sadness are harder for the general public to empathize with. Even if that suffering might be profound enough to threaten their life, it’s difficult for them to open up about it. And if they do, they risk being dismissed: “What could someone as privileged as you have to complain about?” Over time, this stigma deepens. Imagining the possibility that someone might get trapped in this kind of dead end and quietly meet their demise genuinely saddened me. This is why I chose to record my thoughts on this book: as a reminder to myself. I want to accept others’ pain and sadness without judgment, to refrain from trivializing or stealing it from them. It’s challenging to consistently do this perfectly, but I want to carry this awareness with me.

That was my first impression after finishing this book. Now, on my second reading, I feel much the same, but I found another passage that resonates with me.

To be alone in a dual sense may, in a way, imply a double negative of isolation.

This thought occurs to Tsukuru when he dines alone in a restaurant while visiting Finland. I was struck by how much this resonated with my own experiences from when I lived in the Czech Republic. Despite my best efforts with the language, I remained visibly a foreigner—a classic “East Asian” tourist, with a camera hanging around my neck. Though I tried my best to blend in, I knew I was still often seen as just a visitor. If people realized that I spoke Czech and lived there, they would suddenly adopt a warmer, more apologetic attitude, which always delighted me. I never resented their initial impressions, because some people, like myself, seek out that “solitary” space by choosing to journey to a foreign land. I hope that this feeling provided Tsukuru with some form of solace as well.