There’s something so cold, unreachable, withheld and complex, about really solemn, adjective-driven writing, like the sentence I just wrote. But it’s everywhere. I peruse novels in bookstores and am told about, or actually–not told, but shown: these are good writers, after all–something like this: Here is a protagonist. Here is what he is wearing. The gray sky is hanging low over the houses and steeples as he walks through the city, which is barely visible by the soft glow of yellow kerosene lamp posts; church bells toll as though heralding the sad conclusion of whatever personal trial or pre-occupation this protagonist is undergoing.
In other words, novels or essays that are trying to slather, with the first sentence on through paragraph after paragraph, depth, seriousness, and profundity; they think it’s their job to create an operatic scene, emotional vibrato echoing about the visually opulent landscape.
But then there is a kind of scene-setting where the recitation of details is so matter of fact that the writer doesn’t intend to convey heavy emotional terrain. Where the reader doesn’t ned to strap on packloads of symbolism. Where the waitress’ hairstyle, the sound of the espresso machine, the foam in the cappuccino, the placement of the hands of the woman sitting across from the protagonist, her reason for liking chocolate cake instead of flan, are all just there. The reason behind the details of the scene are as banal as the reasons behind the details any scene you actually find yourself in, allowing the reader to experience what comes next – dialogue, action, feeling – as though they are real, not like they are wax figures behind glass in an old museum. These scenes can be contemporary, but they don’t have to be.
When Murakami does this, the details maybe even convey bemusement – on the part of him, the writer, or maybe even his characters – that there might be any other way to set up a world, that there are readers who might find this style boring, or spin up machinery in their brains in an alchemic mission to extract meaning or messages from it.
The first one makes me feel like I’m walking up to a house with 19th century haunted-style features, where I’ll have to bow in the entranceway, and dine at a long table full of strange guests where everybody’s honor is at stake. I am guilty of this: see my last post about India, colors busy and bright, spices deep and rich, etc. The second one invites me to experience the writer’s feeling in my own t-shirt and shoes, in my room, on my street, in my city. I can be on a highway or in a car or cafe and feel the story happen.