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A review by one_womanarmy
Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami
tense
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
0.25
Kafka on the Shore is hands down the worst book I've ever read. Loosely based on the Oedipus myth, and taking some obvious inspiration from Catcher in the Rye, this book seems to be little more than a random hodgepodge of ideas held together with pipe cleaners and raspberry jam.
There was so much to hate about this book. Here are just a few things:
1. Boring, unnecessary descriptions – that do nothing to further the story – of what people are wearing, what Kafka likes to do during his workout, what he decides to eat, what he is listening to on his Walkman...
2. The gratuitous cat torture scene. Johnnie Walker cuts the hearts out of living cats and eat them so that he can collect cat souls to make a special kind of flute. There is no point to this scene – we never hear about Johnnie or his cat-flute again.
3. The annoying way characters – Oshima in particular – deliver sermons about philosophy, art, literature and classical music. It took me right out of the story (tangled mess though it was) and smacked of “Look at me – aren’t I clever?”
4. The screechy-preachy scene with the “feminist” caricatures in the library.
5. Hate to be ungroovy or whatever – but I just couldn’t stand any of the sex scenes, particularly with Miss Saeki, the 50-something librarian who gets it on over and over again with the 15-year-old protagonist even though he and she both know she might be his long-lost mother.
6. The unrelenting use of women as sex dolls, cooks, cleaners, and completely vacuous shields for a 15-year olds' inner world and sexual fantasies.
After the first 100 pages I thought that I might end up giving this book three stars. Another 100 pages on, I decided two stars. By page 331 I decided one star, and by the end of this frustrating, pretentious, and completely unsatisfying book, I felt the people who gushed over this book need therapy, more interesting hobbies, and are simple strangers to me
In the end, love or loathing of a book is entirely subjective, and scores of critics loved this one. But if I’d wanted to find meaning in a random jumble of junk, I would have had more luck going to the thrift store and sifting through the bric-a-brac box than wasting time on Mr. Murakami’s sexist and drivel-filled brain-omelette.
There was so much to hate about this book. Here are just a few things:
1. Boring, unnecessary descriptions – that do nothing to further the story – of what people are wearing, what Kafka likes to do during his workout, what he decides to eat, what he is listening to on his Walkman...
2. The gratuitous cat torture scene. Johnnie Walker cuts the hearts out of living cats and eat them so that he can collect cat souls to make a special kind of flute. There is no point to this scene – we never hear about Johnnie or his cat-flute again.
3. The annoying way characters – Oshima in particular – deliver sermons about philosophy, art, literature and classical music. It took me right out of the story (tangled mess though it was) and smacked of “Look at me – aren’t I clever?”
4. The screechy-preachy scene with the “feminist” caricatures in the library.
5. Hate to be ungroovy or whatever – but I just couldn’t stand any of the sex scenes, particularly with Miss Saeki, the 50-something librarian who gets it on over and over again with the 15-year-old protagonist even though he and she both know she might be his long-lost mother.
6. The unrelenting use of women as sex dolls, cooks, cleaners, and completely vacuous shields for a 15-year olds' inner world and sexual fantasies.
After the first 100 pages I thought that I might end up giving this book three stars. Another 100 pages on, I decided two stars. By page 331 I decided one star, and by the end of this frustrating, pretentious, and completely unsatisfying book, I felt the people who gushed over this book need therapy, more interesting hobbies, and are simple strangers to me
In the end, love or loathing of a book is entirely subjective, and scores of critics loved this one. But if I’d wanted to find meaning in a random jumble of junk, I would have had more luck going to the thrift store and sifting through the bric-a-brac box than wasting time on Mr. Murakami’s sexist and drivel-filled brain-omelette.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Incest and Pedophilia