Even Frank Sinatra is Staying North of the Border for this Review


In my first year of undergrad, I read one of Haruki Murakami’s Rat Trilogy books. I found the novel so unremarkable that I don’t recall which one it was. Having announced this judgment to several Murakami advocates over the years since, they implored me to give him another chance. A dozen years later, I relented.

Picking up a copy of South of the Border, West of the Sun, I was surprised with what I found: it was even worse. Sorry not sorry.

The entire novel follows a pre-pubescent Hijame through his middle-age, and more specifically, follows his Odysseus-sized hubris and unrelenting, lust-crazed hormones toward a childhood flame he eventually discovers and—surprise!—has sex with. The end.

Can someone please explain the point? Maybe there’s someone I’m missing due to translation. Maybe. I respect Murakami’s craft (as I understand it, he wrote too floridly in Japanese and so to be more succinct he learned English, wrote his manuscripts in English, and translated them back into Japanese in order to have a more limited—and thus concise—sentence structure), but no amount of pith can save this story from a one star review.

Not much else to say. Stay north of the border, stay east of the sun on this one. 1/5 stars.


Chandler’s The Big Sleep Will Keep You Wide Awake—

big sleep

A preface: In my quest for Year of the Big Books, Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment had at last risen to the top of my list. I eased it from the bookshelf and resolved to dig in for the long haul. Several reading sessions (days) and many hours later, I closed the novel and checked my progress by noting the depth of the bookmark through the book’s pages. What! Is something wrong with me? I bemoaned. No, seriously. How could I have only read this many pages so far? Is my reading speed regressing?

Fearing for my future literary life, I did something I hardly ever do: started a new book in between the one I’m currently reading. An hour later, I was halfway through the new book and consequently my reading crisis had been averted with the added benefit of a valuable lesson: some books cannot be read straight through. Crime and Punishment is one such book.

The new book, as the title of this review has surely intimated was Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep. Sassy, brash, quick-witted, and sure-footed, protagonist Philip Marlowe isn’t just a private investigator; he’s the genre’s mold. Every detective since is only a die-cast.

Nowadays mystery and thriller novels are a dime a dozen (or at least a dollar each since that’s what we often sell them for at the bookstore). Crime-related entertainment has saturated the media. Just think about how many scores of television shows fall into that category. Or, furthermore, what gets the most news coverage? Yeah, it’s not a new idea. But what sticks out about Philip Marlow’s character, and separates him from the deluge of imitators, is his attitude. To steal a quote Margot Livesey in her essay “Mrs. Turpin Reads the Stars,” Livesey states: “The crucial thing that brings [Marlow] to life, though, is no single attribute or detail, no action or remark, but the overwhelming sense we get, as we read these lines, of how [Marlowe] regards himself and the world: his attitude.”

I don’t know what more I can, or want, to add to that. Normally, I don’t say “just read it” unless I consider a book to be of 5-star merit, but to understand what makes Philip Marlowe—the man, the myth, the original P.I.—and his one-of-a-kind attitude, you do have to read the book. In Marlowe, Raymond Chandler may present what a first appears to be a typical bad boy who can’t obey the law enough himself to be a cop, but simmering beneath his cynical exterior is Chandler’s precise prose, plotting, and observation that it’s obvious why Marlowe’s character has, in fact, endured. Had me wide-eyed from the first. 4/5 stars.

…and maybe a C&P review next week. But probably not.