Wind / Pinball

by Haruki Murakami, Ted Goossen (Translator)

Overview

NATIONAL BESTSELLER

In the spring of 1978, a young Haruki Murakami sat down at his kitchen table and began to write. The result: two remarkable short novels—Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball, 1973—that launched the career of one of the most acclaimed authors of our time.

These powerful, at times surreal, works about two young men coming of age—the unnamed narrator and his friend the Rat—are stories of loneliness, obsession, and eroticism. They bear all the hallmarks of Murakami’s later books, and form the first two-thirds, with A Wild Sheep Chase, of the trilogy of the Rat. 

Widely available in English for the first time ever, newly translated, and featuring a new introduction by Murakami himself, Wind/Pinball gives us a fascinating insight into a great writer’s beginnings.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780385352123
Publisher:	Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date:	08/04/2015
Pages:	256
Sales rank:	557,977
Product dimensions:	5.90(w) x 8.30(h) x 1.20(d)

About the Author

HARUKI MURAKAMI was born in Kyoto in 1949 and now lives near Tokyo. His work has been translated into more than fifty languages, and the most recent of his many international honors is the Jerusalem Prize, whose previous recipients include J. M. Coetzee, Milan Kundera, and V. S. Naipaul.

Hometown:

Tokyo, Japan

Date of Birth:

January 12, 1949

Place of Birth:

Kyoto, Japan

Education:

Waseda University, 1973

Website:

http://www.harukimurakami.com

Read an Excerpt

The twins woke me up on Thursday morning. Fifteen minutes earlier than usual, but what the heck. I shaved, drank my cof­fee, and pored over the morning paper, so fresh from the press that its ink looked ready to smear my hands.

“We have a favor to ask,” said one of the twins.

“Think you can borrow a car on Sunday?” said the other.

“I guess so,” I said. “Where do you want to go?”

“The reservoir.”

“The reservoir?”

They nodded.

“What are you planning to do at the reservoir?”

“Hold a funeral.”

“Who for?”

“The switch panel, of course.”

“I see,” I said. And went back to my paper.
 
Unfortunately, a fine rain was falling Sunday morning. Not that I knew what sort of weather befitted a switch panel’s funeral. The twins never mentioned the rain, so neither did I.
I had borrowed my business partner’s sky-blue Volkswagen Beetle. “Got a girl now, huh?” he asked. “Mm,” I answered. His son had smeared milk chocolate or something all over the back­seat, leaving what looked like bloodstains from a gunfight. Not a single one of his cassette tapes was any good, so we spent the entire hour-and-a-half trip in silence. The rain grew stronger, then weaker, then stronger, then weaker again, at regular inter­vals. A yawn-inducing sort of rain. The only constant was the steady whoosh of oncoming traffic speeding by on the paved road.

One twin sat in the front passenger seat, the other in the backseat, her arms around a thermos bottle and the shopping bag that held the switch panel. Their faces were grave, appropri­ate for a funeral. I matched my mood to theirs. We maintained that solemnity even when we stopped to eat roasted corn. All that broke the silence was the sound of kernels popping off the cob. We gnawed the cobs bare, tossed them away, and resumed our drive.

The area turned out to be populated by hordes of dogs, who milled around in the rain like a school of yellowtail in an aquarium. As a result, I spent a lot of time leaning on the horn. The dogs showed no interest whatsoever in either the rain or our car. In fact, they looked downright pissed off by my honk­ing, although they scampered out of the way. It was impos­sible, of course, for them to avoid the rain. They were all soaked right down to their butt holes—some resembled the otter in Balzac’s story, others reminded me of meditating Buddhist priests.

One of the twins inserted a cigarette between my lips and lit it. Then she placed her little hand on the inner thigh of my cot­ton trousers and moved it up and down a few times. It seemed less a caress than an attempt to verify something.

The rain looked as if it would continue forever. October rains are like that—they just go on and on until every last thing is soaked. The ground was a swamp. It was a chilly, unforgiving world: the trees, the highway, the fields, the cars, the houses, and the dogs, all were drenched.

We climbed a stretch of mountain road, drove through a thick stand of trees, and there was the reservoir. Because of the rain there wasn’t a soul around. Raindrops rippled the water’s surface as far as the eye could see. The sight of the reservoir in the rain moved me in a way I hadn’t expected. We pulled up next to the water and sat there in the car, drinking coffee from the thermos and munching the cookies the twins had bought. There were three kinds—buttercream, coffee cream, and maple—that we divided up into equal groups to give everyone a fair share.
All the while the rain continued to fall on the reservoir. It made very little noise. About as much as if you dropped shred­ded newspaper on a thick carpet. The kind of rain you find in a Claude Lelouch film.

We ate the cookies, drank two cups of coffee each, and brushed the crumbs off our laps at exactly the same moment. No one spoke.

“Shall we?” one of the twins said at last.

The other nodded.

I put out my cigarette.

Leaving our umbrellas behind, we picked up the switch panel and marched to the end of the dead-end bridge that jutted out into the water. The reservoir had been created by damming a river: its banks followed an unnatural curve, the water lapping halfway up the mountainside. The color of the water suggested an eerie depth. Falling drops made fine ripples on the surface.
One of the twins took the switch panel from the paper bag and handed it to me. In the rain it looked even more pathetic than usual.

“Now say a prayer,” one of the twins said.

“A prayer?” I cried in surprise.

“It’s a funeral. There’s got to be a prayer.”

“But I’m not ready,” I said. “I don’t know any prayers by heart.”

“Any old prayer is all right,” one said.

“It’s just a formality,” added the other.

I stood there, soaked from head to toenails, searching for something appropriate to say. The twins’ eyes traveled back and forth between the switch panel and me. They were obvi­ously worried.

“The obligation of philosophy,” I began, quoting Kant, “is to dispel all illusions borne of misunderstanding . . . Rest in peace, ye switch panel, at the bottom of this reservoir.”

“Now throw it in.”

“Huh?”

“The switch panel!”

I drew my right arm all the way back and hurled the switch panel at a forty-five-degree angle into the air as hard as I could. It described a perfect arc as it flew through the rain, landing with a splash on the water’s surface. The ripples spread slowly until they reached our feet.

“What a beautiful prayer!”

“Did you make it up yourself?”

“You bet,” I said.

The three of us huddled together like dripping dogs, looking out over the reservoir.

“How deep is it?” one asked.

“Really, really deep,” I answered.

“Do you think there are fish?” asked the other.

“Ponds always have fish.”

Seen from a distance, the three of us must have looked like an elegant memorial.

Reading Group Guide

The questions, discussion topics, and reading list that follow are intended to enhance your reading group’s discussion of Wind/Pinball, the first two novels—newly translated and widely available in English for the first time—from internationally celebrated writer Haruki Murakami.

1. Discuss the introduction in relation to the content of both novels. Consider this statement, found on page xv: “It is the inherent right of all writers to experiment with the possibilities of language in every way they can imagine.” What stylistic risks were present in these novels?

2. On page xvii, Murakami describes Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball, 1973 as his “kitchen-table novels.” What information did you find most surprising or revelatory about Murakami’s beginnings as a writer?

3. Hear the Wind Sing opens with thoughts about the writing process and its relation to general satisfaction with life. Why do you think the protagonist evokes fictitious Derek Hartfield’s experiences? How does Hartfield’s status as a “fighter…a man who used words as weapons” echo throughout the novel?

4. How would you characterize the Rat? How does his personality shift or change between the two novels? What does the Rat value most in life?

5. Discuss the relationship between the protagonist and the Rat. What common traits do they share? How do they complement each other?

6. Few characters in Wind/Pinball are acknowledged by their given names, and are instead referred to by general identifiers: “the girl,” “the twins,” “the Rat.” Why do you think Murakami made this stylistic decision? What effect does it have on the reader? What does this choice assert about identity?

7. In Hear the Wind Sing, the protagonist comments that the Rat “out-and-out despised” the rich (page 9), despite being born into a wealthy family. What role do class and status play in these novels? How does Rat actively fight his upbringing and social class?

8. Both Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball, 1973 feature moments of extreme malaise from its protagonists. How do the narrator and the Rat abate their sadness? What comforts—if only temporary solutions—do they afford themselves in their despair?

9. Discuss the protagonist’s childhood and adolescence as presented in Hear the Wind Sing. What clues are you given about his personality via descriptions of his upbringing? How does his doctor’s dictum, “Civilization is communication,” echo throughout both novels?

10. J the bartender maintains a significant presence in Wind/Pinball. What is his role in the novels? How does he act as a soundboard for both the protagonist and the Rat?

11. On page 25, the protagonist comments that “for the life of me I couldn’t remember what it was like to meet a girl under normal circumstances.” Examine his relationship with women as discussed in these novels. How do his early experiences with women affect his outlook on life?

12. The section “On the Birth of Pinball” discusses the innovation and creation of the pinball machine. Why do you think the protagonist is invested in pinball as both a practice and an invention?

13. On pages 124–7, the protagonist discusses his career as a translator. How does he react to his financial success? What—if anything—does he values about his career?

14. Discuss the role of the twins in Pinball, 1973. What do we learn about them over the course of the novel?

15. Analyze the journey that the protagonist takes in Pinball, 1973 wherein the protagonist seeks out the elusive pinball machine from J’s bar. Discuss the scene in which he is brought to the warehouse. What significance does the machine hold in his life?

16. Murakami seamlessly blends moments of surrealism among scenes of day-to-day trivialities. What moments bent reality for you during your reading experience? How did you interpret them?

17. There is striking visual imagery in both Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball, 1973. What scenes resonated most with you?

18. What other works by Murakami have you read? Did you find these novels to fit in his oeuvre? Can you trace any commonalities between these works and others?

Editorial Reviews

More than anyone, Haruki Murakami invented 21st-century fiction…He is the novelist of our mash-up epoch…These slim late-1970s works…provide an archaeology for who Murakami became as a writer…If Murakami's hybrid futurism is a product of Japanese tradition clashing with local postmodernism, then the greatest revelation of his debut is how this contradiction has raged in Murakami from the outset. Although Tokyo-located and barely 100 pages long, Hear the Wind Sing is crammed with references to Woodstock, Glenn Gould, Marvin Gaye, Henry James, President Kennedy, Creedence Clearwater Revival, the Mickey Mouse Club, the 1960s TV series Route 66 and—the avatar that cracks the code to everything—the Beach Boys' California Girls…With its more assured voice, its greater mastery of tone and the confidence of a sharper and more mature whimsy, Pinball, 1973 demonstrates the extent to which the author was already progressing in leaps.

The New York Times Book Review - Steve Erickson

06/08/2015
Given Murakami’s (Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage) fervent fan base and the enduring strangeness that characterizes his work, it’s not surprising that an aura of mystery surrounds his first two novels: the only previous English translations were published in Japan and they’ve been difficult to find in the West. Now 1979’s Hear the Wind Sing and the following year’s Pinball, 1973, written while the budding author operated a Tokyo jazz club, are finally available in one volume as Wind/Pinball, and Murakami obsessives are in for a treat. All the hallmarks of Murakami are here at their genesis, including his seemingly simple style, which he describes in an indispensable foreword. Wind is a touching and almost totally uneventful sketch of a record-collecting regular at J’s Bar, his quiet romance with a nine-fingered woman, and his friendship with the dubious ne’er-do-well called the Rat. Pinball recounts the same narrator’s student days on the eve of the Vietnam War, his encounter with identical twins called 209 and 208, and how he and the Rat become swept up in “the occult world of pinball.” Both novels, of course, feature digressions on beer, historical oddballs, obscure trivia, and jazz. Elegiac, ambient, and matter-of-fact in their strangeness, these two novels might leave casual readers wondering what all the fuss is about. But for the rest of us, this may be the ultimate bit of Murakami arcana, both elevating his other books (including A Wild Sheep Chase and Dance, Dance, Dance, the sequels) and serving as two excellent, though fragile, works in their own right. (Aug.)

Publishers Weekly

More than anyone, Haruki Murakami invented 21st-century fiction. . . . He is the novelist of our mash-up epoch and the subversive who, by intent or not, lit the fuse to whatever 'canon' of the previous century anybody still takes seriously. . . .Murakami is the first major Japanese author born in the radioactive white light of the modern age. . . . [His] atomic sensibility characterizes world literature. . . . If Murakami’s hybrid futurism is a product of Japanese tradition clashing with local postmodernism, then the greatest revelation of his debut is how this contradiction has raged in Murakami from the outset. . . . Recalling the prologue that Thomas Pynchon wrote more than 30 years ago for his collection 'Slow Learner,' Murakami’s introduction to Wind/Pinball affords the reader a rare glimpse behind the curtain of a mysterious creative process. . . . On some subliminal level the tension and power of Murakami’s stories reside in the reader’s hope, sometimes fulfilled and sometimes dashed, for reconciliation between the storyteller and his story.”  —The New York Times Book Review

“Powerful, unsettling, mature novels, replete with many of the same distinctive traits that characterize [Murakami’s] later fiction: jazz, beer, a gentle surrealism, a tendency to treat the strange and the mysterious as mundane facts of life and characters haunted by an ineffable, pervasive melancholy. . . . Murakami gives his characters' quirks a humanizing legitimacy. . . . Both novels' metaphors, which are often beautifully suggestive, also cluster around certain core themes.” —Chicago Tribune
 
“Murakami's trademark postmodernist flourishes abound—disrupting the narrative to insert a song lyric, say, or a graphic of a T-shirt—and never fail to surprise and delight.” —O, The Oprah Magazine

“A fresh, heart-warming dose of the Japanese master. . . . These new-old books are short but by no means slight. Nor are they only for hard-core Murakami fans.” —The Economist
 
“[Wind/Pinball] clearly show[s] a writer of innovation emerging and developing his formidable talent. . . . Both books have that unique blend of melancholy and beauty that Murakami manages so well; they are mysterious, moreish. . . . Novella-sized, they incorporate the themes that preoccupy Murakami to the present day, and bear much of the same style. . . . What is also there, especially in Hear the Wind Sing, is reflections on writing itself, as if Murakami were stating his reasons, and his need, to tell stories. . . . What stands out in both books is the writing, beautiful in its simplicity, and also the deadpan humour and one-liners. . . . The dialogue is sparklingly clever, drunkenly witty.” —The Independent

“Elegiac, ambient, and matter-of-fact in [its] strangeness. . . . Given Murakami’s fervent fan base and the enduring strangeness that characterizes his work, it’s not surprising that an aura of mystery surrounds his first two novels: the only previous English translations were published in Japan and they’ve been difficult to find in the West. Now 1979’s Hear the Wind Sing and the following year’s Pinball, 1973, written while the budding author operated a Tokyo jazz club, are finally available in one volume as Wind/Pinball, and Murakami obsessives are in for a treat. All the hallmarks of Murakami are here at their genesis, including his seemingly simple style, which he describes in an indispensable foreword. . . . Both novels, of course, feature digressions on beer, historical oddballs, obscure trivia, and jazz.” —Publishers Weekly

“What establishes these two novellas as quintessential Murakami are not just the themes of isolation and loneliness that will characterise many of his later works, nor their colloquial style that positions them firmly in the familiar territory of classic American coming-of-age novels. It’s that both stories hint at the unique, postmodern blend of the real and the surreal, the quotidian and the allegorical for which Murakami would later become famous. . . . Murakami fans will no doubt delight in this new publication. For newcomers, these early works are an excellent introduction to a writer who has since become one of the most influential novelists of his generation.” —The Guardian

“Electric. . . . A singular work—actually two singular works. . . . These short works are among Murakami’s most carefully crafted offerings, full of raw talent, energy and magic, and totally worth getting lost in. . . . .. Murakami uses white space like Raymond Carver. . . . [Wind/Pinball] ranks with Murakami’s strongest prose.” —Electric Literature

“Though these stories—two of the so-called Rat Trilogy—are more than 40 years old, marking the very beginning of Murakami’s career, they are full of trademark turns. . . . There’s a Beatles record on the turntable at all times, of course, offering the possibility of peace and love and unity. . . . It’s interesting to see hints of the masterly novels to come.” —Kirkus Reviews

“The writing and, above all, Murakami’s way of making emotionally resonant images and symbols bump around on the page, and in one’s mind, remains fresh, miraculously, more than 35 years on.” —Evening Standard
 
"Indispensable." —The Free Lance-Star

“Electric. . . . A singular work—actually two singular works. . . . Among Murakami’s most carefully crafted offerings, full of raw talent, energy and magic, and totally worth getting lost in. . . . .. Murakami uses white space like Raymond Carver. . . . [Wind/Pinball] ranks with Murakami’s strongest prose.” —Electric Literature

“Short, darkly magical coming-of-age tales.” —Elle

“A sympathetic work that reads almost like a memoir. . . . Wind/Pinball is a playful introduction to Murakami’s inventive style, tropes and all. . . . With a funhouse twist, the casual adventures of Wind/Pinball impart a self-aware honesty that will serve as inspiration for any aspiring writer while acting as mirrors to the emotional landscapes of our lives.” —The Daily Californian
 
“A reading experience that causes personal reflection [and] thoughts larger than ourselves. . . . Even though they were released separately, combining the two works into one volume fits perfectly, as they feel like two sides of a tape, and when one side reaches its conclusion, the other is ready to begin.” —Huffington Post
 
“Utterly delightful. . . . [The novellas] both have that indelible sense of detachment that permeates all of Murakami's fiction, a deadpan dreaminess that fatalistically accepts all manner of remarkable goings-on.” —Northwest Arkansas Democrat-Gazette

“A great treat—both for Murakami enthusiasts and for the more casually interested reader. . . . A pair of early literary excursions that are never less than insightful and intelligent; brisk and diverting; unusual and transporting; and that offer a fascinating insight into the imagination of a young writer. . . . The vigour and playfulness with which Murakami handles these peculiar, shifting stories makes for a volume that even those unfamiliar with his writing are likely to enjoy, and there is plenty here for the aficionado, too.” —The National (UAE)

From the Publisher

★ 08/01/2015
Before A Wild Sheep Chase made Murakami an international sensation, he wrote these "kitchen-table novels," so named for where his composition efforts took place after he wrapped up managing his Tokyo jazz bar for the day. Both Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball, 1973 are prequels to Sheep and comprise two-thirds of the "Trilogy of the Rat"; Dance Dance Dance, Sheep's sequel, actually makes the series a tetralogy. This latest two-title edition is a new translation from Canadian professor Goossen, who most recently translated Murakami's The Strange Library; Alfred Birnbaum, Murakami's earliest English translator (including Sheep) published translations of these two works in the mid-1980s, but distribution outside Japan remained mysteriously limited. Read side by side, the translations are not markedly different: Goossen's sentences seem slightly tighter, while Birnbaum's tend toward the more lyrical. Wind introduces the ever-unnamed protagonist and his friend the Rat and covers 18 days during a university summer break; Pinball follows our young man in Tokyo, Rat's growing alienation, and a wild chase to find the titular pinball (machine). Most fascinating is a new introduction in which Murakami shares the serendipitous (surreal) events that led to his novelist career, including a 1978 baseball game epiphany and a wounded bird. He divulges his uncommon style: he composes in English, then "transplants" his text into his native Japanese. The first line of his first novel proves to be a personal lifelong challenge: "There's no such thing as a perfect piece of writing." VERDICT Whether prompted by devotion, curiosity, or obsession, every Murakami fan will flock to this double feature. For newbies, this duo is an unparalleled opportunity to experience his progression from start to phenom: read in four-part order and witness the maturation of an iconic genius. [See Prepub Alert, 2/23/15.]—Terry Hong, Smithsonian BookDragon, Washington, DC

Library Journal

2015-06-03
Two linked early novels from the prolific Murakami (Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage, 2014, etc.)."I learned a lot of what I know about writing from Derek Hartfield," writes Murakami's alter ego, who has already warned us that "writing honestly is very difficult." Hartfield is a Murakami invention, the image of an utterly obscure writer jumping off the Empire State Building carrying a picture of Adolf Hitler and an umbrella both oddly unsettling and portentous. Though these stories—two of the so-called Rat Trilogy—are more than 40 years old, marking the very beginning of Murakami's career, they are full of trademark turns. One is the iron spring that lies hidden in the tatami-covered floor of even the most tranquil room: the narrator lies in bed, smoking, looking at the beautiful young woman lying next to him, and what grabs his attention, unpalatably and uncharitably, is the fact that her beach-won suntan has faded and "the white patches left by her swimsuit looked almost rotten." Another is the untrustworthiness of the narrator—and everyone else, for that matter. Elsewhere, a naked girl pads to the kitchen to make a sandwich, returning with her "cheeks stuffed with bread" just in time to catch him in a lie—but just one lie—while, still elsewhere, a girl stirs her drink with one of her nine fingers and listens to the narrator expatiate on why it is that people die, bullshitting with gusto even as he describes dissecting a cow. And if the narrator is a Murakami alter ego, is the Rat the alter ego once removed? It's a point to ponder. There's a Beatles record on the turntable at all times, of course, offering the possibility of peace and love and unity, but then there's that iron trap again…. Not as well-developed as the later books, and mostly for completists. Still, it's interesting to see hints of the masterly novels to come in these slender, pessimistic tales.

Kirkus Reviews