Writing and Dreaming and Reading...

It's 5.23am and I'm not sleepy. In part, the Olympics are to blame. My nights are now regularly fuelled by some stubborn compulsion to take interest in these random sports - I insist on catching the best performances of whatever sounds interest. Exotic sounds like slalom, intriguing exhibits of strength in gymnastics and athletics, and curious imagery of synchronized swimming. In part, the month of Ramadhan is to blame. I am unwilling to be awakened more than once, and just to eat! I usually don't want to eat at that odd hour but I have to, or face the wrath of my stomach in the morning.

 

But more often than not, I lie awake and be amazed. There is always some book, some show, or some music I want to finish before falling back into the pit of darkness. And tonight, Haruki Murakami's takes a turn.

 

It's a bit strange how I happen to like what he writes. And usually it's admiration of the highest regard. I respect his skill. And I find myself taking that viewpoint of a lot of books under the "Literature" segment in the bookstores. They're usually books of high intellectual value and prose, but normally people don't seem to like reading them. The genre sounds so hoity-toity, as if it was made for smug, cultural people so collect and drop casually, as if exhibiting a piece of jewelry or a fancy bag. These books are "certified" to be the best books by expert. And therefore, if you read it, you must be very smart too.

 

Of course, that isn't so.

 

But to a certain extent, these books are (or aspire to be) the highest form of literary art, proving how words can be more than just vessels of information but also rather a medium to demonstrate beauty, epitomize feeling, or most importantly, generate admiration. Just like any form of high taste like in art, music, theatre, fine dining, etc. But like incomprehensible abstract pictures, not everyone appreciates it, not everyone gets it. And sometimes people just find it downright stupid, which sometimes it is. At these moments, the questions arises: so these people truly have bad taste? Are they lacking in some sort of sensory awareness? Or are they the ones that are not duped by the intention of the artist? Whether the artist has made the viewer the fool? Or the artist is fooling everyone and is going to make a quick buck out of it. Such subjectivity in art, and the ability to come up with some concrete evidence of its quality has made it an annoyance to most folk, usually the more serious minded people like engineers and realists. There is, however, less contention over the fact that art must live. Even the least appreciative would not be able to dismiss the fact that art does affect the quality of living, feeding the person with some sort of hope or accomplishment. For a person to live, beauty must live too. Life would be incredibly dull without it. 

 

As I try and keep my thoughts together, I return to my original purposes, I am enjoying this book very much. I read a snippet of another book the other day, and one of the characters is a stubborn one that didn't want to give up anything they set themselves up to do. And one example was reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and hating it. I also remember another friend not liking Murakami's Kafka by the Shore either. I actually really like those books. I liked reading Murakami. Reading another one, and finding myself at the same zone. Sure, his stuff needed you to adjust to it, but after that, the honesty just becomes natural to you again.

 

The stories are convoluted and normal. They seem to be inspired by the ordinary and extraordinary. Stories about falling in love, crazy men with cats, dream worlds. But they're always rather explicit with their feelings, sometimes even cold. It's really clear with the dirty stuff, like sex and violence. Mostly people just push it under the rug, it's impolite to address these. But somewhere, somehow, wouldn't it be better if everything was explained clearly. If it weren't forbidden would people crave for it as much? If it weren't cool wouldn't people would be less inclined to be pushed to try? Better yet, wouldn't it be better if we figured out what we want to do, so these other petty things wouldn't be so distracting? But truly, it's more in line to how I really think and feel. This is what the voice in my mind sounds like, I think. If I am honest with myself, this is how I really think. I don't think like Bridget Jones. I think a lot more like Murakami's characters. On hindsight, this might be because of my Asian upbringing. And yet, not completely either. I have been a voracious reader since I was 8. My mind has been submerged in the language, its way of thought. Because of that I don't think or feel like a typical Malaysian. But at the same time, I can connect with the thought process of Murakami, assumedly very quirky Japanese. It's something to ponder over as I figure out the type of stories I want to write. They (Murakami's stories) also have a tone of whimsy and fantastic. There's always magic around the corner. Magic is the lifeblood of great fantasies/ And as the story unfolds, it just gets better. When you walk away, you don't get all the answers. But you sure would have plenty to talk about and dream about.

 

Not everyone loves it, but I certainly do. Without artistic pretensions. Without need. A that will keep it true.