Psychoanalysis, Surrealism, and Everything in Between on Haruki Murakamis After Dark

Submitted by: Nicholette Jeanne Pancho Legaspi Schedule: Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays 9:30-10:30 am Date of Submission: October 14, 2011 Submitted to: Mr. Kyle Matthew Q. Santelices

Introduction It is at 11:56 p.m. in one of Japans many amusement districts that Haruki Murakamis appropriately titled novel, After Dark, begins. The reader is literally taken out of this world, taking the shape of an all-seeing eye, and embarking on a post-midnight trip from Dennys to Alphaville. The narrator, the readers Virgil figure and omniscient guide, narrows down on a girl sitting by the front window of a family restauranta certain Mari Asai. From her, a whole range of nocturnal characters are introduced, all intertwined in one gigantic metaphorical spider web. There is the trombone-playing Takahashi, love ho manager Kaoru, not-horny-enough Komugi and her partner-in-crime, the ever cryptic Korogi, the ghost-like Chinese gang member, his pet prostitute, and her dimsum-loving client Shirakawa. And Eri Asai whom the whole novel seems to be revolving around, the sleeping protagonist. Murakami brews a graveyard cup of post-modernism, surrealism, and a dash of dark humor. The Boston Globe, Washington Post, and Christian Science Monitor are all praises for the streamlined, hushed ensemble piece. It is a far cry from todays overrated and verbose bestsellers. Murakami serves his drink straight up; he leaves the reader hanging on to his every word and asking unfathomable questions long after the book is perused.

Analysis Proper When does Before Dark end and After Dark begin? The answer is of no consequence, as Murakami generously spoon-feeds the reader: 11:56 p.m. The line-opener (Eyes mark the shape of the city) is often overlooked by the inattentive reader, even though it conveniently designates his place in the story. He shares a place next to the narrator who, for all his third person omniscience, doesnt always have the answer. For example, he (the narrator) provides no solid answer as to why the eyes come to rest on the nondescript hunched-over-a-book figure of Mari Asai, who the Man with no Face is, how Eri Asai is transported to the other side of her television screen, and etcetera. Murakami, in the true spirit of Kafka, proves himself an ambivalent storyteller. He gives away as much as he leaves things hanging. The city is compared to a single gigantic creature, highlighting its inconsequence next to a whole bigger spectrum that is the worldor at least the dark, night-plunged half of it. It is unlike other stories, in a sense that it is not one-dimensional. It acknowledges the presence of life, of other stories After Dark, outside the bounds of the Japanese 11:56 p.m. time zone, amusement district, and Dennys family restaurant. At the same time, it acknowledges the seemingly random, serendipitous human interactions and connections of its creatures of the night, per se. It establishes the characters interconnectedness in two words: countless arteries. By christening the karaoke-lined, neon-lit, madness infestation of that part of Japan an amusement district, Murakami was foreshadowing the events of the night. As the events unfold in their own good chronological order, none of them proved to be nearly qualified as amusing.

Dennys, in spite of its initial out-of-place American identity, proves to be not simply the best, but quite possibly the only setting Murakami was going for: anonymity and interchangeability. It is the very city in a nutshell. During the day, it is a Welcome to Dennys sort of family restaurant; at night, it is a completely different placea refuge for hormonally bombarded teenage girls (or girl, as she was the only female in the restaurant at the beginning of the story), a chicken-salad-and-burnt-toast stopover for trombone players, and even a service agency for love ho managers in need of Chinese translators pronto. During the day, Maris presence might have been ironic and intrusive; but at night, she fits in like a glove. Mari Asai, in all of her low-key glory, is meant to be an anonymous character and an easily identifiable one at that. Anybody can find themselves sitting in a four-person chair and reading a book alone. Anybody can don a hooded gray parka and faded yellow sneakers and top everything off with a Boston Red Sox cap despite complete ignorance of Americas favorite pastime. Had Murakami decided to reveal the title of the hardback she was reading, it would have givenif not completely givenher identity away. In stark contrast, Eri Asaiat least, in the beginning, when her Snow White-inspired fairy tale of a life is mostly told by her oblivious sister is not a very easy character to identify oneself with. Not everybody can find herself living the life of a supermodel, appearing on the covers of glossy fashion magazines and making testosterone rage on TV. Not everybody can decide going to asleep for a while for a reason inapprehensible to anyone else. Mari Asai, a probably college freshman age, is also a very fitting opening character, if not the main protagonist. She has an air of high

school that clings to herlike the time of the night the story is set in: a crossover into darkness; her very own crossover of coming-of-age. Tetsuya Takahashi has more distinct descriptions, as opposed to what Murakami had begrudgingly bestowed upon Mari. When he entered Dennys, he was towing along with him a wind instrument and a dirty tote bag filled with sheet music. From the lanky top of his head to his equally lanky feet, it is his eye-catching scar that steals the scene. Unlike Mari, he is meant to be a literary stereotype: the stray mutt type. Kaoru, Korogi, Komugi, Shirakawa, the Chinese gang member, and the prostitute are all basically literary stereotypes as well. They are just some of the more-colorful-than-neon-signage characters that lead nocturnal lives: the love ho manager, love ho assistants, computer programmer, gang member, and prostitute respectively (and repetitively for the latter two). Perhaps pseudo-stereotypical is the better word. When one picks up a novel, he does not necessarily anticipate a blond ex-female-wrestler-turnedlove-ho-manager half the time. Nor does he expect dingdong girls at allnighters beck and call or vengeful Chinese gangs leaving unaccented Japanese voice mails. Then again, its exactly what one gets when one picks up a Haruki Murakami book: characters and settings that play up a series of thoughts that are not suited to the average day persons fleeting muses. Eri Asai has got it all: beauty, brains (just enough to pass her sociology exams), and a promising modeling career. She is living the teenage queen dream. To an outsider and only sister, Mari, it seemed almost

inapprehensible why the former should decide on going to sleep for a while, and a really long for a while at that. According to Lacanian Theory, the mirror stage is characterized by the period when the child begins to draw rudimentary distinctions between self and the other. If such is the case, then Eri Asai has yet to have her fair share of the Lacanian mirror stage. Ever since she was a child, Eri had always found herself subjected to her parents expectations. She was going to be the Snow White, leaving her less beautiful younger sister the hardy shepherd girl. Perhaps that played a part in her ridiculous delicacy: her allergies to cats, dogs, cedar pollen, ragweed, mackerel, shrimp, and, not to mention, fresh paint. Perhaps that drove her to a modeling career (which was bound to happen anyway with looks like hers). Perhaps that turned her into a pill freak, a fortune telling believer, and an overall miserable person as all people who are in diets are. Perhaps that alienated her, in the end, from her family, her only sister, her friendsboth old and new. Eri Asai, despite her good fortune of beauty and enough brains and modeling career, was closer to her fictional happy ending than her real-life happy ending. She could never find herself in tune with the rest of the world and see the way they did. So then the words that come out of her mouth stop making it all the way to me were the exact words Takahashi had used to describe the strange feeling of having to talk with an alienated person like Eri. It is then easy to diagnose her with the literary Psyche disorder, famed after the

provincial Roman princess who incurs the wrath of Venus but the love of her son, Cupid. Her involuntary alienation, a result to a Snow White conditioning of some sort since childhood, pushed her to the brink of extinction: a voluntary detachment from the only world she knew. Sleep was Eris escape and her supposed sanctuary. She had succeeded in her quest to shut herself from her own life. The room on the other side of her television could have symbolized total isolation: a large empty space of whitewashed walls, two locked doors, and a window that overlooked into nothingness, but it didnt matter. Even in the end, Murakami never touched on the subject of the reality of Eris abduction, dream, or whatever it was. In a sick turn of events, Eri used sleep to go back to the other side of the television screen, to her side of realityand just when she had reached the pinnacle of her isolation success story. When the screen began to lose its stability, Eri sensed danger and knew that it was high time she chose between reality and fantasy. Once the distinction blurred, she was in danger of being obliterated herself. She could see what was going on in the other side of the television glass. She saw her bed, her room, and her life in general. She was finally seeing things clearly (or at least, clearer than usual) from the other side and realized that she couldnt bear to have her take all that away from her. The price of self-deprivation from her own life is too high, and so enters the classic Man VS Self conflict. Before the night is done, sleep becomes her return to the worldif not in the mental sense then in the physical at the very least.

Takahashi is a walking irony, a young man at the husks of adulthood. Hes got nothing figured out, save for the Asai sisters. He is the connection between Eri and Mari. That he, out of all the guys in class, should go on a double date composed of himself, his friend, and the two girls, is not merely serendipitous. Literary speak, Takahashi is made to establish the connection between the well-established differences of Eri and Mari Asai. Mari Asai, despite going through the same parental conditioning as her sister, was able to establish a firm sense of self-identity. In accordance to Freuds law of transformationthat which governs the process of repression and sublimationMari was able to rechannel her want of parental sympathy (no doubt brought about by her lack of exaggerated delicacy) into success in her academics. Mari was able to use the minimal pressure to her advantage: a firm grip on reality, goals she wants to reach in the near future, and late nights reading heavy hardbound covers. Unconsciously, Mari decided to be the mirror-opposite of her sister and make the second syllable of their names their only similarity. It was partly influenced by their parents expectations, partly to distinguish herself from Eris surreal and glamorous life. Mari was jealous of her. The reader can almost hear envy bleeding out of her words every time she spoke of her sister throughout the bookand thats saying something. Mari found it difficult, even impossible, to fully separate herself and her sister. It was futile early on when Takahashi walked into Dennys and recognized her as Eri Asais little sister.

Kaoru is a Chewbacca-figurescary on the outside but a real softie on the inside. Her history as a female wrestler makes her protective instincts all the more rational. Her nature, unlike those of Eri and Mari, is undiluted by parental conditioning or influence of any sort. Freud once claimed that all human beings are born with certain instinctsnatural tendencies to satisfy determined needs. Hence, Kaorus protective instincts. She feels strongly for the battered Chinese prostitute, not only because that was the way she ran Alphaville or the trouble she went through to clean up the mess (and certainly not of any homosexual feelings for her), but also her aforementioned protective instincts towards a fellow woman, nocturnal creature, and outcast. Shirakawas act of laying a hand on the Chinese prostitute was one associated with gender identityhis exertion of his masculinity: projection of blame onto women as the source of the problem and domination. If one thought hard about it, he would realize that the Chinese prostitute, though far from being a saint, was, in that one particular circumstance, faultless. Her only fault was having her period come early which, physiologically speaking, is perfectly normal for girls her age. Feminism aside (not that there was any to begin with), Shirakawa purposefully beat up a poor defenseless creature for the sake of his masculinity.

He also wanted to exude domination over the lesser sex and thought it inconsequential to exhibit it on a prostitute. Such an urge might easily have stemmed from his deprivation to exude his dominance in his own home, due to his unlikely schedule. Korogi provides a relief from the questions surrounding the mystery of Eri Asais semi-self-imposed predicament. If Eri could have had a channel to voice out her distant thoughts and feelings, it would be through Korogi whose character seemed to embody that of the former. Korogi was clearly trying to run away from something, as she had pointed out herself to an almost total stranger. She paralleled Eri in that sense. When things came to their worst, they found themselves confiding to complete strangers just as Eri did to Takahashi. Korogi and Eri wanted to run away from something so gruesome that they were willing (Korogi was; Eri wasntin the end) to pay the heavy of price of leaving their whole lives behind. The biggest difference was that Korogi was running from something physical and external, something that could brand an iron mark on bare flesh, whereas Eri was running from something more close at home, personal and internal. All of the characters lives seem to bisect one another in a bizarre spider web or even an ecological food chain, and at the heart of everything is the Sleeping Beauty Eri. Despite having played the role of the sleeping protagonist, she was, by no means, an inactive one. She haunted her insomniac younger sisters thoughts and her conversations throughout the night with Takahashi, Kaoru,

and Korogi. She even haunted Shirakawas office space, though, in her brand of reality, was devoid of any sort of furniture.

CONCLUSION Murakamianism, though not universally deemed a literary style equal to that of Shakespeare at the moment, may very well soon catch up, even if the whole world turned into staunch literary critics. It [Murakamianism] is best described as ambiguous as a straight up coffee brew. Unresolved subplots frustrate readers under normal circumstances, but Murakami is probably one of the handfuls who can get away with such an outburst from the literary community. If Murakami was to be subjected under a Jungian archetype, he would be an anima of no less than the Sophia phase. Hes good-and-evil incarnate to his readers: pumping up the suspense and adrenaline and then leaving sizable chunks to interpretation without necessarily equating the latter as a letdown.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Wikipedia. (n.d.). Psychoanalysis. Retrieved October 13, 2011, from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psychoanalysis Poole, S. (2007). Night of the living dead. Retrieved October 13, 2011, from http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2007/jun/09/fiction.harukimurakami Quigley, T. (2009). A Brief Outline of Psychoanalytic Theory. Retrieved October 13, 2011, from http://homepage.newschool.edu/~quigleyt/vcs/psychoanalysis-intro.pdf Sheppard, J. (2007). After Dark by Haruki Murakami. Retrieved October 13, 2011, from http://www.popmatters.com/pm/review/after-dark-by-harukimurakami1 Knopf, A. (2007). Book review: After Dark, by Haruki Murakami. Retrieved October 13, 2011, from http://www.cclapcenter.com/2007/11/book_review_after_dark_by_haru.htm l