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What I Talk About When I Talk About Repetition

By Ian Shaikh

In his memoir, Haruki Murakami runs ideas into left field and runs readers out of their minds.

Technically, the target reader for Murakami's memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running would be one who reads Murakami, writes, and runs -- as these are the topics he writes about. But in all likelihood his main audience will be limited to the starry-eyed and reverential fan base who quote him relentlessly on their blogs and have the cover art for Kafka on the Shore blown up and taped to their wall. I won't deny that I was once a part of this fan base, so I can say right now that Murakami lovers will enjoy this book -- only hopefully the fans won't spend money on it. That is, unless they're planning to sell it back to the bookstore when they're done (which will be after about five hours), because this is certainly not a book you'd read twice.

Imagine a journal you've kept, and all of those meditative rambling entries and you'll have a sense of what reading this book is like. It felt as if two thirds of it was small talk: he'd go on about the weather or outline every single destination in his travel itinerary or describe in detail the places he runs at and why he likes them: "most of it is a flat road that parallels a river and the sea, and there aren't many cars and hardly any traffic to slow me up. The air is clean, too, unlike in Tokyo. It can get a little boring to run for three..." or "one lap around Jingu Gaien is a little more than three-quarters of a mile, and I like the fact that they have distance markers in the ground. Whenever I run a set speed..." and on and on and on.

Supposedly the text was closely edited later (for grammar and flow maybe). It wasn't edited to strike out repetition, that's for sure. The book is riddled with simple explanations that belie any deep reflection. This comes in the form of such repeated phrases as "I'm a physical, not intellectual, type of person," or to excuse himself he writes "but what're you going to do? That's the kind of person I am."

This typifying of characteristics, people, and places is on nearly every page; it's repeated so many times I began thinking it was some type, kind, or sort of cop-out or temporary punctuation in order to conclude the subject and move on. There is the possibility that these qualifiers were added in by the translator, Philip Gabriel (who, by the way, has beautifully translated Murakami's fiction before). This is doubtful, however, since Murakami makes a point of claiming the text as his own: "what's presented here is me, the kind of person I am" (emphasis his).

This isn't to say the book doesn't have its moments. The first comes with the idea that suffering is optional: "the hurt part is an unavoidable reality, but whether or not you can stand any more is up to the runner himself." It's a simple sort of statement that nonetheless resonates (at least with me). Also interesting is when Murakami denies the notions of self and consciousness as "convenient forms and nothing more" during an ultra-marathon, and reminded me a little of the "convenient fiction" of his Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. He also says a few things about running that I, as a runner, appreciate. But these moments come about like spontaneous thoughts, like they were destinations he didn't entirely expect to arrive at.

It's in this sense that it is unclear why Murakami wrote this book in the first place, let alone why he published it. There are several given reasons, of course: first, that it simply "suited me," a pseudo-memoir about his relationship with running; second, that he wanted to give a "certain amount of life lessons"; and third, to present the "kind" of person he is: "me." He also suggests, at one point, that the reason he writes it may also be to record his experiences and mistakes in running so that he may avoid them later. In his tangent-happy style the multitude of reasons he comes up with (along with all his "life lessons") appear off the top of his head and aren't even clear to himself.

He even, at times, responds to criticism, which muddles the book even more. There are passages where he almost brags: one where he mentions how a girl stopped him on one of his runs in order to tell him how much of a fan she was; and other on how so many American students showed up to hear him speak, but the lecture room could only hold so many and so hundreds had to leave. Conceivably, he may write these as mere events in the filler-talk of his diary writing style. But then he also writes how people told him he couldn't do things: he couldn't start a jazz club because he was too young and not a businessman; or he couldn't be a novelist -- and he of course proves them wrong by doing both. Or he writes that one reason for his running is to prolong his life so that he doesn't burn out as a novelist -- "which," he says, "is exactly why even though people say, 'he's no artist,' I keep on running."

This desire to stay healthy is also something he defends when he writes how people in Japan believe that "novelists are somewhat degenerate and have to live hazardous lives in order to write." He then spends a few pages putting this "stereotype" into context and then placing himself in a context -- the runner -- in which that criticism is not applicable.

I consider Murakami to be an artist. His work is highly interpretable, steeped in the cultural history of Japan, and ripe with symbolism. But this work just doesn't have any real purpose; at least no purpose that brings anything new to the table. What it does offer, if this is what the reader is looking for, is a few nice ideas and a narrow view of who Murakami thinks he is. It's extremely easy to read -- 179 pages, with medium sized font -- so if it is repetitive, it isn't something the reader has to bare long. Read it at your own monetary expense.

Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Knopf, 2008

Date Posted: 10/3/2008