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A review by theuncultured
Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami, Haruki Murakami
2.0
"It’s enough just to sit here in a cafe, sniff the smell of the city, like a dog might, listen to voices and sounds, and gaze at the faces of the people passing by."
I was idle enough one day to attempt another go at Sputnik Sweetheart. I originally gave it a one-star rating with the intention of never opening it up again. I knew what drew me away from the book the first time (see: the deep/undeep feelings of Sumine who is ultimately a wannabe writer, her obsession with being elsewhere on a shallow scheme that only looked good for pictures, the "love at first sight"/"love because why not?" feelings of the characters, the incessant mansplaining by the narrator...)
However, the book wasn't nearly as horrible as I previously thought. I mean, it had its redeeming moments, some passages were lovely enough to copy down, and the second half of the book easily made it up for me. Murakami isn't the best teller of tales here, he's kind of boring to be honest. His straightforwardness contained a certain austere aesthetic that I wouldn't normally link to "good prose." The writing was mostly on the corny side (and I don't know if this is because of the translation?) I had to roll my eyes every time the main character started to self-deprecate, it was uncomfortable and very very old.
But as this turned out to be an overall gentle read, I must up my previous rating.
I was idle enough one day to attempt another go at Sputnik Sweetheart. I originally gave it a one-star rating with the intention of never opening it up again. I knew what drew me away from the book the first time (see: the deep/undeep feelings of Sumine who is ultimately a wannabe writer, her obsession with being elsewhere on a shallow scheme that only looked good for pictures, the "love at first sight"/"love because why not?" feelings of the characters, the incessant mansplaining by the narrator...)
However, the book wasn't nearly as horrible as I previously thought. I mean, it had its redeeming moments, some passages were lovely enough to copy down, and the second half of the book easily made it up for me. Murakami isn't the best teller of tales here, he's kind of boring to be honest. His straightforwardness contained a certain austere aesthetic that I wouldn't normally link to "good prose." The writing was mostly on the corny side (and I don't know if this is because of the translation?) I had to roll my eyes every time the main character started to self-deprecate, it was uncomfortable and very very old.
But as this turned out to be an overall gentle read, I must up my previous rating.