Severed: on Murakami's South of the Border, West of the Sun

I just re-finished South of the Border, West of the Sun by Murakami upon seeing a book club that would discuss it at the end of the day. I already read it as one of the first Murakami books I read upon recommendation by my German design teacher (Ingrid). I think I was 20 years old at that time. And I tried to also remember if it's Dance Dance Dance or this one, South of the Border, West of the Sun, which she handed over to me. I believe one or the other, because she kind of introduced me to Murakami and later I became an avid reader. I also have this vague memory that I reread it as an e-book around 2017 after I broke up with my second boyfriend, Gerard. Reading this book always gave me this comfort to accompany me in my pain.

Then eight years after, with not so vivid a memory of the book, I scoured to find an audio book that I could listen to, which was doable since it only has 15 chapters and is around 8 hours in length. It's like binge-watching an entire season of a series. So I said, I will give it a shot. The last time I had this thrill of finishing a book was with Harry Potter when my schoolmate in high school lent me his book and said, “You can only have this for a day since someone else wishes to read it the next day.” So here I was, sitting under a mango tree behind our school campus in UP High Cebu until dusk, and I got so mesmerized and drunk-like with euphoria when I finished the book in one sitting.

So I started and was determined to finish it before the scheduled book club gathering at night, but when I was on the 12th chapter, I dozed off, and when I woke up, the remaining three chapters could not be finished. So I was only able to finish listening to it until chapter 13.

So there I was, at my first Murakami book club. At first I was very hesitant since I consider Murakami as something I want to keep to myself, like a jar of cookies I want to savour on my own. But I was very curious how it goes, so I joined, and lo and behold I met other Murakami fans who were so eager to share their thoughts. Although I am so shy, and the organizers were not sensitive enough in how to manage the participants who wanted to share. There was an attempt when I wanted to share my thoughts with video and camera, but there were participants whom I assume to be long-time members who could not be stopped, or I was very conscious not to interrupt to show respect. So I ended up only chatting some of my few reactions.

Some of the ideas that were shared were quite interesting; some of them I nodded to in agreement; some I had a different belief about based on my personal perspective. With this book discussion, I kept an open mind and secretly held on to what I believe and how it struck me. One of those is the realization that the film Past Lives is a parallel with this one. Also, the possibility of Shimamoto as something imagined. Well, for me she is real. Now, let me go ahead and write some of my memories of this book and my re-realizations after encountering this book for the third time.

Shimamoto is real, and I have some theories why:

Shimamoto has “taning.”
She is about to die (the medication she has, with which she almost died when she forgot to take some),
and yes, she wanted to kill herself,
and eventually wished to die with Hajime.
It's all or nothing—even the gift she gave but eventually got back:
a severing of ties, a memory---not a promise, a non-verbal goodbye.

For me, it’s one of Murakami’s most grounded novels—stripped of magic realism and focused instead on what it means to be human: suffering, raw darkness, and quiet pain.

To commemorate, I went for a walk in Cerillo (Collado Villalba) on a freezing autumnal cold and watched the sky bleed. I could not feel my hands as both of them were like ice.

The sadness I felt with the book is still within me, bringing back painful memories that I also personally have, which ride along in each passage. As if I punished myself again and again as I reminisced all the instances I got brokenhearted. I felt overwhelmed with pain, and I cried in the middle of a darkening field.