The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
A Novel. Nominiert: IMPAC Dublin Literary Award 1999
(Sprache: Englisch)
A "dreamlike and compelling tour de force (Chicago Tribune) an astonishingly imaginative detective story, an account of a disintegrating marriage, and an excavation of the buried secrets from Japan s forgotten campaign in Manchuria during World War...
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A "dreamlike and compelling tour de force (Chicago Tribune) an astonishingly imaginative detective story, an account of a disintegrating marriage, and an excavation of the buried secrets from Japan s forgotten campaign in Manchuria during World War II.Now with a new introduction by the author.
In a Tokyo suburb, a young man named Toru Okada searches for his wife s missing cat and then for his wife as well in a netherworld beneath the city s placid surface. As these searches intersect, he encounters a bizarre group of allies and antagonists. Gripping, prophetic, and suffused with comedy and menace, this is one of Haruki Murakami s most acclaimed and beloved novels.
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Book One: The Thieving MagpieJune and July 1984
1
Tuesday's Wind-Up Bird
Six Fingers and Four Breasts
When the phone rang I was in the kitchen, boiling a potful of spaghetti and whistling along with an FM broadcast of the overture to Rossini's The Thieving Magpie, which has to be the perfect music for cooking pasta.
I wanted to ignore the phone, not only because the spaghetti was nearly done, but because Claudio Abbado was bringing the London Symphony to its musical climax. Finally, though, I had to give in. It could have been somebody with news of a job opening. I lowered the flame, went to the living room, and picked up the receiver.
"Ten minutes, please," said a woman on the other end.
I'm good at recognizing people's voices, but this was not one I knew.
"Excuse me? To whom did you wish to speak?"
"To you, of course. Ten minutes, please. That's all we need to understand each other." Her voice was low and soft but otherwise nondescript.
"Understand each other?"
"Each other's feelings."
I leaned over and peeked through the kitchen door. The spaghetti pot was steaming nicely, and Claudio Abbado was still conducting The Thieving Magpie.
"Sorry, but you caught me in the middle of making spaghetti. Can I ask you to call back later?"
"Spaghetti? What are you doing cooking spaghetti at ten-thirty in the morning?"
"That's none of your business," I said. "I decide what I eat and when I eat it."
"True enough. I'll call back," she said, her voice now flat and expressionless. A little change in mood can do amazing things to the tone of a person's voice.
"Hold on a minute," I said before she could hang up. "If this is some new sales gimmick, you can forget it. I'm out of work. I'm not in the market for anything."
"Don't worry. I know."
"You know? You know what?"
"That you're out of work. I know about that. So go cook your precious spaghetti."
"Who the hell--"
She cut the connection.
... mehr
With no outlet for my feelings, I stared at the phone in my hand until I remembered the spaghetti. Back in the kitchen, I turned off the gas and poured the contents of the pot into a colander. Thanks to the phone call, the spaghetti was a little softer than al dente, but it had not been dealt a mortal blow. I started eating--and thinking.
Understand each other? Understand each other's feelings in ten minutes? What was she talking about? Maybe it was just a prank call. Or some new sales pitch. In any case, it had nothing to do with me.
After lunch, I went back to my library novel on the living room sofa, glancing every now and then at the telephone.
What were we supposed to understand about each other in ten minutes? What can two people understand about each other in ten minutes? Come to think of it, she seemed awfully sure about those ten minutes: it was the first thing out of her mouth. As if nine minutes would be too short or eleven minutes too long. Like cooking spaghetti al dente.
I couldn't read anymore. I decided to iron shirts instead. Which is what I always do when I'm upset. It's an old habit. I divide the job into twelve precise stages, beginning with the collar (outer surface) and ending with the left-hand cuff. The order is always the same, and I count off each stage to myself. Otherwise, it won't come out right.
I ironed three shirts, checking them over for wrinkles and putting them on hangers. Once I had switched off the iron and put it away with the ironing board in the hall closet, my mind felt a good deal clearer.
I was on my way to the kitchen for a glass of
With no outlet for my feelings, I stared at the phone in my hand until I remembered the spaghetti. Back in the kitchen, I turned off the gas and poured the contents of the pot into a colander. Thanks to the phone call, the spaghetti was a little softer than al dente, but it had not been dealt a mortal blow. I started eating--and thinking.
Understand each other? Understand each other's feelings in ten minutes? What was she talking about? Maybe it was just a prank call. Or some new sales pitch. In any case, it had nothing to do with me.
After lunch, I went back to my library novel on the living room sofa, glancing every now and then at the telephone.
What were we supposed to understand about each other in ten minutes? What can two people understand about each other in ten minutes? Come to think of it, she seemed awfully sure about those ten minutes: it was the first thing out of her mouth. As if nine minutes would be too short or eleven minutes too long. Like cooking spaghetti al dente.
I couldn't read anymore. I decided to iron shirts instead. Which is what I always do when I'm upset. It's an old habit. I divide the job into twelve precise stages, beginning with the collar (outer surface) and ending with the left-hand cuff. The order is always the same, and I count off each stage to myself. Otherwise, it won't come out right.
I ironed three shirts, checking them over for wrinkles and putting them on hangers. Once I had switched off the iron and put it away with the ironing board in the hall closet, my mind felt a good deal clearer.
I was on my way to the kitchen for a glass of
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Haruki Murakami
Haruki Murakami
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Haruki Murakami
- 1998, 624 Seiten, Maße: 13,1 x 20,3 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Übersetzer: Jay Rubin
- Verlag: Penguin Random House
- ISBN-10: 0679775439
- ISBN-13: 9780679775430
- Erscheinungsdatum: 28.12.2011
Sprache:
Englisch
Rezension zu „The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle “
"Japans ranghöchster Romancier heute ist Haruki Murakami - ein Mythenschöpfer für die Jahrtausendwende, ein hinterlistiger Weiser." (Publishers Weekly)
Pressezitat
Dreamlike and compelling.... Murakami is a genius. Chicago TribuneMesmerizing.... Murakami s most ambitious attempt yet to stuff all of modern Japan into a single fictional edifice. The Washington Post Book World
A significant advance in Murakami s art ... a bold and generous book. The New York Times Book Review
A stunning work of art ... that bears no comparisons. New York Observer
With The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Murakami spreads his brilliant, fantastical wings and soars. Philadelphia Inquirer
Seductive.... A labyrinth designed by a master, at once familiar and irresistibly strange. San Francisco Chronicle
An epic ... as sculpted and implacable as a bird by Brancusi. New York Magazine
Mesmerizing, original ... fascinating, daring, mysterious and profoundly rewarding. Baltimore Sun
A beguiling sense of mystery suffuses The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and draws us irresistibly and ever deeper into the phantasmagoria of pain and memory.... Compelling [and] convincing. Los Angeles Times Book Review
Digs relentlessly into the buried secrets of Japan s past ... brilliantly translated into the latest vernacular. Pico Iyer, Time
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