Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami – That Sense of Loneliness, That Unattainable Love

I have come to the realisation that perhaps there is no such thing as which is my favorite Haruki Murakami novel (my 6th so far).  Even though my familiarity to his style has led me to half-expecting what “Sputnik Sweetheart” would become, there is still this element of freshness that kept me from putting the book down.  And I finished reading it in one day, wanting more.  The opening paragraph would be the best way to introduce the story.

In the spring of her twenty-second year, Sumire fell in love for the first time in her life.  An intense love, a veritable tornado sweeping across the plains – flattening everything in its path, tossing things up in the air, ripping them to shreds, crushing them to bits … In short, a love of truly monumental proportions.  The person she fell in love with happened to be 17 years older than Sumire.  And was married.  And, I should add, was a woman.  This is where it all began, and where it all ended.  Almost.

The theme of “Sputnik Sweetheart”, from what I observe, is loneliness, riding onto the framework of unattainable love.  That strong sense of loneliness!  The narrator – a man – falls in love with a lesbian who falls in love with a married woman.  True to Murakami’s style, this book is full of metaphors (“did you see anyone shot by a gun without bleeding?“), dualism that leads to surrealism, and characters that come alive in their very own unique style.

What stands out in “Sputnik Sweetheart” is the way the story is narrated and told.  Timeline is shifted to and fro to suit the narration.  Focus is shifted from one character to another and back to the narrator without the readers noticing the change, encouraging us to want to learn more about the characters’ way of thinking and their way of life.  And then, something strange happens to these characters.  The author spends the second part of the book pasting bits and pieces of information together – some from interview, some from his observation, and some from the journals left behind.  Distinguishing what is real from what is not is often not easy, as it is with all of Marakami’s works.  Even as I devoured the very last paragraph of the book, these thoughts lingered: Could this be real?  What happened next?  And in my dreamy state, inside an English cottage at Fraser’s Hill, the follow paragraph from the book has made the most impact to me.

Lying there, I close my eyes for a while, then open them.  I silently breathe in, then out.  A thought begins to form in my mind, but in the end I think of nothing.  Not that there was much difference between the two, thinking and not thinking.  I find I can no longer distinguish between one thing and another, between things that existed and things that did not.  I look out of the window.  Until the sky turns white, clouds float by, birds chirp, and a new day lumbers up, gathering together the sleepy minds of the people who inhabit this planet.

The rate this is going, Haruki Murakami could well be one of my most read author, after Milan Kundera and Italo Calvino.