Haruki Murakami and the Scarcity of Serious Thought

But no! Instead the point is that he's apparently the only human still able to concentrate properly. Oh well.

It's a dense suburb on the outskirts of Tokyo, just in case anyone was falling for the romantic falsehood this line was selling.

> Neither our economy nor the demands of a live well-lived dictate that everyone should aspire to be sitting alone at a desk in rural Narashino, crafting literature to the light of the rising sun. My growing concern, however, is that such real commitment to thought has become too rare.

With that said generalisations like the one quoted are not substantiated. I don't think real commitment/passion to anything was that popular to begin with if we take the general population. Even historically if we take education levels back then.

In every field there are people that excel, people that go by and people that shouldn't be there. All of these are based on an individual's choice and priority/circumstances. Do I want to be the person that excels and be one of the best in this field or not? Murakami decided he didn't want to be just a writer, but a great one. Whether he succeeded is another matter, but he tried because he could and wanted it. I've read only "South of the Border, West of the Sun" and it was ok, but not really something special (IMHO).

But still, this blog post bears a truth for me. I find it harder to sit down in a calm env. and concentrate on writing code for a prolonged period of time. Partially covid-19, remote work (and my gf) is to blame.

Regarding Murakami, I couldn’t find it interesting enough to finish a book. There are 2 types of fiction writers from my point of view: 1. Clever ones who know what they are writing *in* the process. 2. Writers who figure out what they wrote *after* the process.

And Murakami is the first kind.

Well, I had a Sabbatical year and did indeed work on some great stuff, but not having anything on hand at all except writing itself can be quite boring, I discovered.

Didn’t Sol Weintraub do his best writing after his day to day work as a mason? He had ample time to think during the day and wrote at night.

The fluorescent light on the ceiling shone down on Ushikawa’s body. The heat was turned off, and a window was open, so the room was as freezing as an icehouse. Several conference tables had been shoved together in the center of the room, and on top of them, Ushikawa lay faceup. He had on winter long johns, and an old blanket was thrown on top of him. Under the blanket, his stomach was swollen, like an anthill in a field. A small piece of cloth covered his questioning, opened eyes—eyes that no one had been able to close. His lips were slightly parted, lips from which no breath or words would ever slip out again. The crown of his head was flatter, and more enigmatic-looking, than it had been while he was alive. Thick, black, frizzy hair—reminiscent of pubic hair—shabbily surrounded that crown.

Buzzcut had on a navy-blue down jacket, while Ponytail was wearing a brown suede rancher’s coat with a fur-trimmed collar. Both were slightly ill-fitting, as if they had hurriedly grabbed them from a limited supply of clothing that happened to be on hand. They were indoors, but their breath was white in the cold. The three of them were the sole occupants of the room. Buzzcut, Ponytail, and Ushikawa. There were three aluminum-sash windows on one wall, near the ceiling, and one of them was wide open to help keep the temperature down. Other than the tables with the body, there was no other furniture. It was an entirely bland, no-nonsense room. Placed there, even a corpse—even Ushikawa’s—looked like a colorless, utilitarian object.

No one was talking. The room was utterly devoid of sound. Buzzcut had a lot to ponder, and Ponytail never spoke anyway. Buzzcut was lost in thought, pacing back and forth in front of the table that held Ushikawa’s body. Except for the moment when he reached the wall and had to turn around, his pace never slackened. His leather shoes were totally silent as they trod upon the cheap, light yellow-green carpeting. As usual, Ponytail staked out a spot near the door and stood there, motionless, legs slightly apart, back straight, staring off at an invisible point in space. He didn’t seem tired or cold, not at all. The only evidence that he was still among the living was an occasional rapid burst of blinks, and the measured white breath that left his mouth.

Earlier that day, a number of people had gathered in that freezing room to discuss the situation. One of Sakigake’s high-ranking members had been on a trip and it had taken a day to get everyone together. The meeting was secret, and they spoke in hushed tones so no one outside could hear. All this time, Ushikawa’s corpse had lain there on the table, like a sample at an industrial machinery convention. Rigor mortis had set in on the corpse, and it would be another three days before that broke and the body was pliable again. Everyone shot the occasional quick glance at the body as they discussed several practical matters.

While they were discussing things there was no sense—even when the talk turned to the deceased—that they were paying respects to him or feeling regret for his passing. The stiff, stocky corpse simply reminded them of certain lessons, and reconfirmed a few reflections on life. Nothing more. Once time has passed, it can’t be taken back. If death brings about any resolution, it’s one that only applies to the deceased. Those sorts of lessons, those sorts of reflections.

What should they do with Ushikawa’s body? They knew the answer before they began. Ushikawa had died of unnatural causes, and if he were discovered, the police would launch an all-out investigation that would inevitably uncover his connection with Sakigake. They couldn’t risk that. As soon as the rigor mortis was gone, they would secretly transport the corpse to the industrial-sized incinerator on the grounds of their compound and dispose of it. Soon it would become nothing but black smoke and white ash. The smoke would be absorbed into the sky, the ash would be spread on the fields as fertilizer for the vegetables. They had performed the same operation a number of times, under Buzzcut’s supervision. Leader’s body had been too big, so they had “handled” it by using a chain saw to cut it into pieces. There was no need to do so this time, for Ushikawa was nowhere near as big. Buzzcut was grateful for that. He didn’t like any operations that got too gory. Whether it was dealing with the living or the dead, he preferred not to see any blood.