Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World by Haruki Murakami (English) Pap

Description: Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World by Haruki Murakami A clerk in a Tokyo of the near future works in an organization that controls the flow of information to society--employing electronic brainwashing and other insidious techniques--a job that contributes to his increasing sense of dehumanization. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description From the #1 New York Times bestselling author of 1Q84 and The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle comes a relentlessly inventive novel that dives deep into the very nature of consciousness. "Fantastical, mysterious, and funny . . . a fantasy world that might have been penned by Franz Kafka."—The Philadelphia InquirerAcross two parallel narratives, Murakami draws readers into a mind-bending universe in which Lauren Bacall, Bob Dylan, a split-brained data processor, a deranged scientist, his shockingly undemure granddaughter, and various thugs, librarians, and subterranean monsters collide to dazzling effect. What emerges is a hyperkinetic novel that is at once hilariously funny and a deeply serious meditation on the nature and uses of the mind. Back Cover In this hyperkinetic and relentlessly inventive novel, Japans most popular (and controversial) fiction writer hurtles into the consciousness of the West. Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World draws readers into a narrative particle accelerator in which a split-brained data processor, a deranged scientist, his shockingly undemure granddaughter, Lauren Bacall, Bob Dylan, and various thugs, librarians, and subterranean monsters collide to dazzling effect. What emerges is simultaneously cooler than zero and unaffectedly affecting, a hilariously funny and deeply serious meditation on the nature and uses of the mind. Author Biography Haruki Murakami is a best-selling Japanese writer. His works of fiction and non-fiction have garnered critical acclaim and numerous awards, including the Franz Kafka Prize, the Frank OConnor International Short Story Award and the Jerusalem Prize, among others. Murakamis fiction is humorous and surreal, focusing on themes of alienation and loneliness. He is considered an important figure in postmodern literature. The Guardian praised Murakami as "among the worlds greatest living novelists" for his works and achievements. Murakami is the author of 1Q84, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles, Men Without Women and many more. Review "Murakamis bold willingness to go straight over the top [is] a signal indication of his genius . . . a world-class writer who has both eyes open and takes big risks." –The Washington Post Book World"He has become the foremost representative of a new style of Japanese writing: hip, cynical, highly stylized, set at the juncture of cyberpunk, postmodernism, and hard-boiled detective fiction. . . . Murakami [is] adept at deadpan wit, outrageous style." –Los Angeles Times Magazine"Fantastical, mysterious, and funny . . . a fantasy world that might have been penned by Franz Kafka." –Philadelphia Inquirer"Rich in action, suspense, odd characters and unexpected trifles . . . [a] provocative work." –The Atlantic"Murakamis gift is for ironic observations that hint at something graver. . . . He is wry, absurd, and desolate." –Los Angeles Times Book Review"[A] mix of American fun and Japanese dread." –Esquire"An intertwining DNA model of seemingly contrary elements . . . a combination of Kafkas castle, Borgess library, and the Prisoners TV village." –Village Voice Literary Supplement"Off the wall . . . hilariously bizarre . . . splendid . . . a remarkable book . . . Alfred Birnbaum . . . has captured the crazed, surreal feel of Murakamis Japanese." –The Times (London)"His novels . . . are set on fast-forward: raucous, slangy, irreverent." –Details Review Quote "Murakamis bold willingness to go straight over the top [is] a signal indication of his genius . . . a world-class writer who has both eyes open and takes big risks." The Washington Post Book World "He has become the foremost representative of a new style of Japanese writing: hip, cynical, highly stylized, set at the juncture of cyberpunk, postmodernism, and hard-boiled detective fiction. . . . Murakami [is] adept at deadpan wit, outrageous style." Los Angeles Times Magazine "Fantastical, mysterious, and funny . . . a fantasy world that might have been penned by Franz Kafka." Philadelphia Inquirer "Rich in action, suspense, odd characters and unexpected trifles . . . [a] provocative work." The Atlantic "Murakamis gift is for ironic observations that hint at something graver. . . . He is wry, absurd, and desolate." Los Angeles Times Book Review "[A] mix of American fun and Japanese dread." Esquire "An intertwining DNA model of seemingly contrary elements . . . a combination of Kafkas castle, Borgess library, and the Prisoners TV village." Village Voice Literary Supplement "Off the wall . . . hilariously bizarre . . . splendid . . . a remarkable book . . . Alfred Birnbaum . . . has captured the crazed, surreal feel of Murakamis Japanese." The Times (London) "His novels . . . are set on fast-forward: raucous, slangy, irreverent." Details From the Trade Paperback edition. Excerpt from Book 1 Elevator, Silence, Overweight The elevator continued its impossibly slow ascent. Or at least I imagined it was ascent. There was no telling for sure: it was so slow that all sense of direction simply vanished. It could have been going down for all I knew, or maybe it wasnt moving at all. But lets just assume it was going up. Merely a guess. Maybe Id gone up twelve stories, then down three. Maybe Id circled the globe. How would I know? Every last thing about this elevator was worlds apart from the cheap die-cut job in my apartment building, scarcely one notch up the evolutionary scale from a well bucket. Youd never believe the two pieces of machinery had the same name and the same purpose. The two were pushing the outer limits conceivable as elevators. First of all, consider the space. This elevator was so spacious it could have served as an office. Put in a desk, add a cabinet and a locker, throw in a kitchenette, and youd still have room to spare. You might even squeeze in three camels and a mid-range palm tree while you were at it. Second, there was the cleanliness. Antiseptic as a brand-new coffin. The walls and ceiling were absolutely spotless polished stainless steel, the floor immaculately carpeted in a handsome moss-green. Third, it was dead silent. There wasnt a sound--literally not one sound--from the moment I stepped inside and the doors slid shut. Deep rivers run quiet. Another thing, most of the gadgets an elevator is supposed to have were missing. Where, for example, was the panel with all the buttons and switches? No floor numbers to press, no DOOR OPEN and DOOR CLOSE, no EMERGENCY STOP. Nothing whatsoever. All of which made me feel utterly defenseless. And it wasnt just no buttons; it was no indication of advancing floor, no posted capacity or warning, not even a manufacturers nameplate. Forget about trying to locate an emergency exit. Here I was, sealed in. No way this elevator could have gotten fire department approval. There are norms for elevators after all. Staring at these four blank stainless-steel walls, I recalled one of Houdinis great escapes Id seen in a movie. Hes tied up in how many ropes and chains, stuffed into a big trunk, which is wound fast with another thick chain and sent hurtling, the whole lot, over Niagara Falls. Or maybe it was an icy dip in the Arctic Ocean. Given that I wasnt all tied up, I was doing okay; insofar as I wasnt clued in on the trick, Houdini was one up on me. Talk about not clued in, I didnt even know if I was moving or standing still. I ventured a cough, but it didnt echo anything like a cough. It seemed flat, like clay thrown against a slick concrete wall. I could hardly believe that dull thud issued from my own body. I tried coughing one more time. The result was the same. So much for coughing. I stood in that hermetically sealed vault for what seemed an eternity. The doors showed no sign of ever opening. Stationary in unending silence, a still life: Man in Elevator. I started to get nervous. What if the machinery had malfunctioned? Or suppose the elevator operator--assuming there was one in the building--forgot I was here in this box? People have lost track of me before. I strained to hear something, anything, but no sound reached my ears. I pressed my ear against the stainless-steel wall. Sure enough, not a sound. All I managed was to leave an outline of my ear on the cold metal. The elevator was made, apparently, of a miracle alloy that absorbed all noise. I tried whistling Danny Boy , but it came out like a dog wheezing with asthma. There was little left to do but lean up against a wall and count the change in my pockets. For someone in my profession, knowing how to kill time is as important a method of training as gripping rubber balls is for a boxer. Although, in any strict sense, its not killing time at all. For only through assiduous repetition is it possible to redistribute skewed tendencies. I always come prepared with pockets full of loose change. In my right pocket I keep one-hundred- and five-hundred-yen coins, in my left fifties and tens. One-yen and five-yen coins I carry in a back pocket, but as a rule these dont enter into the count. What I do is thrust my hands simultaneously into both pockets, the right hand tallying the hundreds and five-hundreds in tandem with the left hand adding up the fifties and tens. Its hard for those whove never attempted the procedure to grasp what it is to calculate this way, and admittedly it is tricky at first. The right brain and the left brain each keep separate tabs, which are then brought together like two halves of a split watermelon. No easy task until you get the hang of it. Whether or not I really do put the right and left sides of my brain to separate accounts, I honestly cant say. A specialist in neurophysiology might have insights to offer on the matter. Im no neurophysiologist, however. All I know is that when Im actually in the midst of counting, I feel like Im using the right side and left side of my brain differently. And when Im through counting, it seems the fatigue that sets in is qualitatively quite distinct from what comes with normal counting. For convenience sake, I think of it as right-brain-totals-right-pocket, left-brain-totals-left-pocket. On the whole, I think of myself as one of those people who take a convenience-sake view of prevailing world conditions, events, existence in general. Not that Im such a blasé, convenience-sake sort of guy--although I do have tendencies in that direction--but because more often than not Ive observed that convenient approximations bring you closest to comprehending the true nature of things. For instance, supposing that the planet earth were not a sphere but a gigantic coffee table, how much difference in everyday life would that make? Granted, this is a pretty farfetched examp≤ you cant rearrange facts of life so freely. Still, picturing the planet earth, for convenience sake, as a gigantic coffee table does in fact help clear away the clutter--those practically pointless contingencies such as gravity and the international dateline and the equator, those nagging details that arise from the spherical view. I mean, for a guy leading a perfectly ordinary existence, how many times in the course of a lifetime would the equator be a significant factor? But to return to the matter at hand--or rather, hands, the right and the left each going about its own separate business--it is by no means easy to keep running parallel counts. Even for me, to get it down took the longest time. But once you do, once youve gotten the knack, its not something you lose. Like riding a bike or swimming. Which isnt to say you cant always use a little more practice. Repetition can improve your technique and refine your style. If for no other reason than this, I always keep my hands busy. This time I had three five-hundred-yen coins and eighteen hundreds in the one pocket, and seven fifties and sixteen tens in the other. Making a grand total of three-thousand eight-hundred-ten yen. Calculations like this are no trouble at all. Simpler than counting the fingers on my hands. Satisfied, I leaned back against the stainless-steel wall and looked straight ahead at the doors. Which were still not opening. What could be taking so long? I tentatively wrote off both the equipment-malfunction theory and the forgotten-by-operator theory. Neither very realistic. This was not to say that equipment malfunction or operator negligence couldnt realistically occur. On the contrary, I know for a fact that such accidents are all too common in the real world. What I mean to say is that in a highly exceptional reality--this ridiculously slick elevator a case in point--the non-exceptional can, for convenience sake, be written off as paradoxically exceptional. Could any human being capable of designing this Tom Swift elevator fail to keep the machinery in working order or forget the proper procedures once a visitor stepped inside? The answer was obvious. No. Never happen. Not after they had been so meticulous up to that point. Theyd seen to minute details, measuring each step Id taken virtually to the millimeter. Id been stopped by two guards at the entrance to the building, asked whom I was there to see, matched against a visitors list, made to produce my drivers license, logged into a central computer for verification, after which I was summarily pushed into this elevator. You dont get this much going over when you visit the Bank of Japan. It was unthinkable that they, having done all that, should slip up now. The only possibility was that they had intentionally placed me in this particular situation. They wanted the elevators motions to be opaque to me. They wanted the elevator to move so slowly I wouldnt be able to tell if it were going up or down. They were probably watching me with a hidden TV camera now. To ward off the boredom, I thought about searching for the camera lens. But on second thought, what would I have to gain if I found it? That would alert them, theyd halt the elevator, and Id be even later for my appointed hour. So I decided to do nothing. I was here in proper accordance with my duties. No need to worry, no cause for alarm. I leaned against the elevator wall, thrust my hands in my pockets, and once more counted my change. Three-thousand seven-hundred-fifty yen. Nothing to it. Done in a flash. Three-thousand seven-hundred-fifty yen? Something was wrong. Details ISBN0679743464 Author Haruki Murakami Short Title HARD-BOILED WONDERLAND & THE E Pages 416 Language English Translator Alfred T. Birnbaum ISBN-10 0679743464 ISBN-13 9780679743460 Media Book Format Paperback DEWEY FIC Illustrations Yes Year 1993 Imprint Vintage Books Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States Birth 1949 Alternative 9789626343388 Residence Oiso, JA DOI 10.1604/9780679743460 AU Release Date 1993-03-02 NZ Release Date 1993-03-02 US Release Date 1993-03-02 UK Release Date 1993-03-02 Publisher Random House USA Inc Series Vintage International Publication Date 1993-03-02 Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:2629797;

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