Finding Enlightenment After Dark
Unpacking Murakami’s Novel About the Search
for Human Connection
When I was a high school student, I studied abroad for a
summer in Tokyo with a Japanese family.
I have always been passionate about Japan, so for me it was the
experience of a lifetime. At the time, I
had never heard of Murakami until my host father pulled out a copy of 1Q84
one night after dinner. Intrigued, I
asked him about it. The way he glowed
while discussing his love of the book and Murakami inspired me to give the
iconic Japanese author’s works a try.
Once I returned home to the states, I scoured the shelves of
my local library for Murakami’s English translated works. The only one available was, you guessed it, After
Dark. I checked it out and blitzed
right through it in a day.
I cannot say that I immediately loved it. After all, not a whole lot happens. At least, not on the surface. But for some reason, the novel has grown on
me for more than a decade. Perhaps my
desire to write this piece is fueled in part by wanting to travel to that other
world I glimpsed while reading through it.
Perhaps another part is fueled by fond memories of getting lost
wandering the streets of Tokyo with my fellow exchange students after dark.
At any rate, I wanted to analyze as much of it as possible
through this one essay. For this reason,
I chose to analyze the theme topic of darkness.
Given that the title of the novel is “After Dark” and how darkness plays
such a prominent role on multiple levels throughout the text, I decided that exploring
the novel through this lens would produce a comprehensive analysis.
At the same time, I do also acknowledge that the text is
richly nuanced and allows for many different interpretations. Thus, at the end of this piece, I will
briefly discuss other areas for potential further research and analysis. These are things that struck me as
significant, but didn’t quite fit in with the overall worldview I sensed in the
novel.
On a side note, any quotes or references I make are from the
2008 Vintage Books edition, unless otherwise stated.
Darkness and Light, Light and Darkness
First and foremost, the novel switches the traditional roles
of light and darkness. Normally, light
equals knowledge, virtue, and most importantly, enlightenment. Darkness usually represents the
opposite. However, the text reverses
this by associating light with the Tokyo of the day, i.e. modern consumer
culture and the alienation it can cause. On the other hand, although it is not
portrayed as being completely benign, darkness is portrayed as more
enlightening and less distracting. The
main character’s foray into this other world results in both her and other
characters finding human connection and self-actualization. More specific examples will be demonstrated
in the analysis to follow.
Thus, the primary worldview of the novel is this: Modern society, with its glitzy and flashy
consumer culture, bewilders and stifles many individuals with its incessant expectations
and the manufactured aspirations it sells.
Although this flashy consumer culture presents many ways for people to
express and aspire to their individuality, it also paradoxically blinds people
to not only those around them, but also to their true selves.
After Dark suggests that by engaging with “the darkness,” individuals find human connection with others. This connection with others, in turn, grants them insight into their own souls and the means to overcome the glitzy trappings of modern consumer culture. Although at different stages, the characters of the story all engage with this darkness on three different levels as they, consciously or subconsciously, search for this communal state of “After Dark”. These three levels are:
1) The Literal
2) The Social
3) The Metaphysical
The goal of this analysis is to illustrate how the darkness
works on these three levels to promote the worldview mentioned above.
Thus, without further ado…
The Literal
The first level of darkness is literally Tokyo at
night. In particular, Shinjuku or
Shibuya. The text doesn’t make it clear
which one, but they’re both safe bets.
For an excellent analysis of the physical setting of the novel, see A
Spatial Analysis of Haruki Murakami’s After Dark: The City at Night as a Place to Encounter
“Darkness” by Masayasu Oda. In his
essay, Oda calls the setting “Shibuya,” but acknowledges that it shares many of
the characteristics of both that and Shinjuku. Regardless which one serves as the setting,
they both support the novel’s theme because they are physical manifestations of
connection. Simply put, both areas are
major hubs. Both areas have love hotels,
both are world-famous, and both host foot traffic numbering in the hundreds of
thousands of people each day, if not more.
Thus, setting the novel in the late evening within either ward creates
an excellent physical representation of this theme of “connection in and
through darkness.”
This theme topic of “connection in darkness” on a physical
level is developed from the very beginning of the novel. “Eyes mark the shape of the city,” (page 3)
according to the narrator. The omniscient narrator that guides the reader
describes the city below as a vast organism.
He compares its highways to “arteries” sending out new “data” (page 3). By comparing the city at night to a vast
organism, the narrator is suggesting a collective theme. By definition, a
collective is an integrated whole whose parts connect and communicate with one
another, much like a body’s nervous system might enable communication
throughout an organism or people in a city might interact with one
another. The comparison to a living
creature also suggests a certain vitality to be found in this connective
state.
By contrast, the world of light (i.e. Tokyo during the day)
is depicted as having walls separating its inhabitants. We get this sense from the following brief section
at the end of the novel:
“For now, at least, there is nothing nearby to threaten
[Mari]. Nineteen years old, she is
protected by a roof and walls, protected, too, by fenced green lawns, burglar
alarms, newly waxed station wagons, and big, smart dogs that stroll the neighbourhood”
(page 200).
The description of the suburban area in which she lives
implies walls and division, in addition to safety. This is the opposite of how the communal
world of night is portrayed.
It’s also telling how during the beginning of the novel,
Mari’s first foray into the “world of darkness” is at a Denny’s. The choice of Denny’s possibly implies two
things: One, it symbolizes bland,
consumer culture. Two, it also
illustrates one of many instances of how Western culture pervades the Japanese
cultural landscape. The latter is a
whole other topic I will save for another essay.
Continuing with the initial setting of the novel, the
restaurant is on the second floor of some building, probably a shopping
center. On the crossing below her,
hundreds of people are still rushing back and forth, some trying to catch the
last trains back to the suburbs, others simply loitering around town. Within the Denny’s restaurant itself, the
setting is described as being brightly lit and “anonymous.” For example, the
narrator describes the layout as being meticulously designed by management
engineers. The waiting staff only say
things that are called for in the training manual, and the customers filling
the tables are all largely faceless.
Upon zeroing in on the Denny’s and eventually Mari, the narrator even
asks the reader “Why her? Why not
somebody else? Hard to say. But, for
some reason, she attracts our attention – very naturally” (page 5).
Even the way Takahashi opines about the toast they serve him
further reinforces this theme:
“No matter how much I scream at them to make my toast as
crispy as possible, I have never once got it the way I want it. I can’t imagine why. What with Japanese industriousness and
high-tech culture and the market principles that the Denny’s chain is always
pursuing, it shouldn’t be that hard to get crispy toast, don’t you think? So, why can’t they do it? Of what value is a civilization that can’t
toast a piece of bread as ordered?”
(pages 12-13)
On the surface, Takahashi’s complaints seem frivolous. It may simply be a way for the text to start
characterizing Takahashi: He is very
particular about how his food is presented and prepared. We observe this same proclivity when he is
picking out milk, apples, and fish cakes at the convenience store before
meeting Mari at the SkyLark. On the other hand, it may be a way to inject a
little humor. Regardless, when reading
the comment through the lens of light symbolizing distraction, alienation, and
modern consumer culture, it makes a lot of sense. It underscores how modern consumer culture is
so bland and rigid that it is incapable of accommodating even minor, individual
preferences.
This further emphasizes where Mari physically starts in her
journey to “after dark.” It serves as a
place for her to “get her feet wet,” so to speak, before she delves further
into the different social sphere that is Shibuya at night, the latter being a
state of connection that, deep down, she desires. Starting in the anonymous Denny’s emphasizes
the theme of modern culture forcibly masking the individual to blend in with a broader
collective. It also helps underscore
from where she’s starting on her journey towards “after dark:” Not only is she
anonymous to other people by and large, but to some degree, Mari’s a stranger
to her true self.
Regarding the physical, literal level that darkness operates
on, it’s also telling how Mari, unlike the other characters, doesn’t even live
in the Tokyo metropolitan area. “Your
house was way out in Hiyoshi, I seem to recall” Takahashi remarks (page 19). Hiyoshi is a suburb of Yokohama, relatively
further away from Tokyo geographically compared to all the other
characters. Oda’s essay features a
simple map that illustrates the locations of all the characters’ homes (see
below). Judging by the distance from
“Shibuya,” the map gives some perspective of how even on the physical,
geographic level, she’s an outsider when it comes to this world of Tokyo.
Map Created by
Masayasu Oda
In addition to the Denny’s, the communal nature of the
darkness is juxtaposed to the Alphaville hotel.
Quite literally, it is where people go to physically “commune” with one
another. After Mari explains her
favorite movie that shares the same name, Kaoru opines on how fitting the name
is for a love hotel. There is a type of
connection to be had there, but most of the time it is hollow. This is similar to how the people in the
movie, Alphaville suppress their deep feelings so that they may avoid execution.
Overall, the fact that there are less people in the city at
night, combined with public transportation largely coming to a halt, means that
the city after dark gives people the time and opportunity to form deeper
connections. Of course, these
connections and encounters are not always positive or even healthy, as is the
case for Guo Dong Li. As Kaoru mentions,
there are dangerous characters that lurk in the area, whether they be Shirakawa
or the likes of the Chinese gang member.
On a literal level, wandering the city after dark leaves you vulnerable
to violence. However, one could also
argue that on another level, the darkness encourages the type of vulnerability
that leads to deeper human connection.
The Social
The second level of darkness the text operates on is
social. The late-night hours in
Shibuya/Shinjuku offer people the chance to brush shoulders with people they
otherwise would not during the day. This
late-night setting also gives people more freedom to expose their
individuality, for better or for worse.
In his essay, Oda asserts that the colors characters wear
subtly illustrate their personality. He
quotes many different passages where the text goes to great lengths to describe
each characters’ outfits and their possessions.
To build on this, I would add that not only do these
descriptions characterize the people Mari meets, they also serve to contrast
the people of the night from the people of the day. In essence, this contrast serves as a
physical marker delineating those that inhabit this intimate, more communal
world of darkness, from those, such as Mari and Shirakawa, who are part of the
more “respectable” and, in a way, distracted and alienated society of Tokyo
during the day.
As Mari soon learns as she meets different folks, the
characters in this “after dark” social space have no qualms about displaying
their individuality and connecting with others.
For example, Tetsuya Takahashi is described as someone who
has the look of someone that does not care much about his appearance. His hair is unkempt, he wears a bright orange
Swatch, black leather coat, olive green chinos, and he carries a trombone case
on his shoulder. Unlike most people, he
has no inhibitions about parking himself at Mari’s table and striking up a
conversation, despite their tenuous social connection through her sister. He is a regular inhabitant of the city at
night, mostly because he practices trombone in a jazz band in a soundproof
basement near the Alphaville hotel.
Presumably, this is because the space is only available at night.
Then there’s Kaoru.
Unlike most women, Kaoru is large and powerfully built. She is described as wearing a black leather
jacket with orange pants. Her hair is
spiky and blond, and she wears a black toque over it while outside in the cool,
autumn air. She also has a scorpion
tattoo on her shoulder from when she was a pro wrestler. She, like Takahashi, also is confident enough
to go up to a total stranger and ask for her assistance in helping the
prostitute. She displays this confidence
again when she confronts the Chinese gang member and asks him to pick up
Shirakawa’s tab. She also captures
footage of Shirakawa and goes out of her way to pass them on to the gang
member.
Other, unique denizens of this world of night we meet are
the two employees that work under Kaoru, Korogi and Komugi. They, too, express their unique individuality
through their appearance. Korogi is less
flamboyant in her appearance than Komugi, the latter wearing brightly dyed red
hair and large hoop earrings. The young
man working in the convenience store has a unique appearance with his dyed red
hair. Similarly, the Chinese gang member
has dyed brown hair tied up in a ponytail.
This isn’t to say that these characters’ physical
appearances are 100% unique from how some people might dress during the day in
Tokyo. But their appearances do serve to
contrast with both Mari and Shirakawa, who tend to wear blander colors such as
white and gray. Shirakawa is shown to be
wearing regular office clothes, such as a blue paisley tie, a grey trench coat,
and Armani glasses. When Kaoru, Komugi,
and Korogi see Shirakawa on the camera, they comment on how ordinary he
looks. Even his last name, Shirakawa,
which means “white river” (白川)
in Japanese, gives a sense of anonymity and lack of color or uniqueness. It could even be interpreted in a temporal
sense, given that a river is always flowing just like time keeps on
flowing. This possibly alludes to the
fact that Shirakawa is also a somewhat temporary visitor to this world of
darkness.
Mari’s fashion sense also seems subdued. The most unique aspect of her clothing is
probably her Boston Red Sox cap and her varsity jacket. The reader receives no impression that she is
actually a fan of the Boston Red Sox.
Under the varsity jacket, she is described as wearing a gray parka,
which is a similar color to Shirakawa’s gray trench coat. The text also emphasizes her faded, yellow
sneakers that appear to have been repeatedly washed. As Oda observes in his spatial
analysis, she periodically looks at her shoes, as if to make sure that they are
still clean after treading through Tokyo at night. However, these might not
necessarily serve to emphasize her individuality or tastes as much as possibly
to make distant observers mistaken her for a boy, as Oda also notes (Oda 3). Perhaps this is a means to protect herself
from anyone that might try to harm her.
Either way, the appearance of the latter two characters is
juxtaposed to the somewhat more flamboyant appearances of the other, main
characters that regularly inhabit the Tokyo after dark. This is meant to emphasize that she and
Shirakawa both come from a different world compared to that of the other
characters that regularly inhabit Tokyo at night. This is true for Shirakawa, given that he
tells his wife that he’s supposedly not going to be working the night shift forever,
implying that he normally works during the day.
Similarly, Mari also does not make a habit of spending the night
downtown. The two of them could be said
to be of similar social classes, in the sense that they are both described as
being “respectable.” Mari is referred to
as a “little genius” and it’s implied that Shirakawa, too, has a keen
intellect, as evidenced by his profession as a computer programmer.
Thus, Shirakawa and Mari are both temporary visitors to this
world of Tokyo “After Dark.” However, it
is safe to say that they have different destinations in mind during this
journey through the darkness. Mari is
subconsciously trying to get to “After Dark” so that she can connect with her
sister, as she later realizes. But
Shirakawa seems keen to stay in a seedier state of darkness; it accommodates
and shields his base desires from normal society’s purview. More on this later when I discuss the third
level that the darkness operates on.
Needless to say, the text does not suggest that Mari’s
choice of clothing and appearance are the only thing delineating her from this
social level of the world of darkness.
For example, Kaoru asks “…what’s
a girl like you doing hanging out all night in a place like this?” while Mari
joins her for drinks at the local bar (page 57). This comment works perfectly on a thematic
level: In a sense, Mari has traveled to
a completely different world from the one she normally inhabits. She comes from the world of day and
light. A world full of appearances and
expectations that can become so oppressive that they almost invade one’s
soul.
For example, one of the most heartbreaking moments of the
novel is when Mari tells Kaoru: “As long
as I can remember they [her parents] always compared me to [Eri], like, ‘How
can two sisters be so different?’ It’s
true, I don’t stand a chance if you compare me to her” (page 56). Her parents even told her that “…[She] had
better study hard, because [she’s] too ugly for anything else” (page 55).
Mari discusses other parts of her childhood that illustrate
how alienated she feels. She talks about
how she was bullied for not fitting in.
The bullying became so unbearable that the thought of going to school
nauseated her. This theme of isolation
reveals itself in many of her other conversations about her life. In essence, although Mari has some idea of
what she wants out of life, she admits that she has not been so sure about her
identity.
Takahashi seems to confirm this perception of Mari when he
relays something Eri had said during their outing two summers ago at the hotel
in Shinagawa. He remembers how Eri told
him not to mind her younger sister when he asked why she wasn’t very outgoing
towards the other three. Eri said that
Mari spends more time speaking Mandarin than Japanese and that she never makes
an effort to initiate conversation with anyone.
However, through the course of the novel, not only does she
connect with other people, but those other people also help her to
self-actualize. For example, after
meeting Takahashi, she in turn gets to meet Kaoru. Kaoru is in desperate need of her help. And it’s not just anyone’s help; it is
assistance that very few people aside from Mari can immediately provide. In essence, Mari gets to promote her identity
after meeting Takahashi by exercising her skill with the Mandarin language. A skill that she has fastidiously developed
since she was young. The fact that she
is set to study abroad in Beijing is further proof of how much of her identity
has been built around this skill.
In all, these encounters serve to bring Mari closer to
finding human connection. None of these
experiences would have happened or even had the same effect on her had she not
entered Tokyo after dark. In this way,
the darkness works on a social level to bring the main character in contact
with people from different social classes and backgrounds. This helps her to find human connection,
which in turn allows her to connect on an almost metaphysical level with her
sister.
The Metaphysical
In addition to bringing people into closer physical
proximity, as well as mixing people from different social strata, the darkness
also provides a spiritual, metaphysical hub where people’s psyches may
commune. This parallels Shibuya/Shinjuku
during the night and day, which are both major hubs in the Tokyo metropolitan
area. There are several instances in the
text that suggest that the city after dark is not only a place where different
people mingle socially (and physically), but also a completely different
world. As Kaoru mentions – “…this is not
the kind of neighborhood respectable girls ought to be spending the night. Between the time the last train leaves and
the first train arrives, the place changes:
it’s not the same as in daytime” (page 58).
Further emphasizing the metaphysical/spiritual nature of the
city after dark, after giving the gangster the Shirakawa photos and watching
him speed away on his motorbike, Komugi and Kaoru refer to him as a ghost:
“’I don’t know, he’s kind of like a ghost.
“’Well, it is the right time of day for ghosts, you
know,’ Kaoru says” (page 79).
Thus, it is here that Murakami’s penchant for magical
realism surfaces. Throughout the
narrative, there are several devices that contribute to this idea of people’s
psyches interacting on a metaphysical, dare I say, supernatural level during
the late evening hours.
Impartial, Orthodox Time Travelers
The most prominent element of the metaphysical is the
narrator and the way he guides us through the story. He takes us through walls. He transports us to the world inside of a television
set. We fly through the air with him as
he follows characters all over Tokyo during the hours of the night. We even accompany him as he views Tokyo from
a crow’s eye point of view (This may be a nod to Kafka, which literally means
“crow.” Murakami is known to be a fan of
Franz Kafka’s works).
In the beginning, he tells us that we are “impartial
observers.” We follow the rules of
“orthodox time travelers” that merely observe and do not intervene (page
27). This detached attitude parallels
the social and spiritual states of Mari and the rest of the characters at the
beginning of the novel: To some degree,
they all feel alienated and detached, especially in relation to mainstream
Tokyo society.
As the novel progresses, however, the communal, metaphysical
medium of the night starts changing the attitude of even our dispassionate
narrator/tour-guide. It’s as if the
narrator, too, is on a journey through the night to parallel the journey the
main character takes. For example, after
the TV in Eri’s room has transported her to the “other side” and starts to
display static on its screen, the narrator says that “we shout” and try to warn
Eri that she’s in danger (page 152).
There are also many other instances of the narrator delving deeper into what
characters might be thinking, as opposed to him just relaying his observations.
This indicates that try as he might to remain objective and detached, he too is
feeling connection with the characters. This,
in turn, may cause the reader to feel more empathetic towards them as
well.
Eri Asai’s Journey Through the Night
Most of this essay has been focusing on Mari’s journey
through the darkness of Tokyo and the connection that she seeks. Later on, she admits to Korogi that one of
her biggest struggles that motivated her to stay in the city at night is the
fact that Eri has been asleep for over two months. Because of this, Mari said that she just
cannot sleep knowing her sister won’t wake up (page 162).
On the surface, this represents an interesting duality. On the one hand, Eri Asai can do nothing but
sleep. On the other hand, Mari suffers from
insomnia precisely because all her sister does is sleep. Deep down, the two sisters’ plights are two
sides of the same coin. The two of them
are both seeking human connection by trying to engage with “the darkness.” Most importantly, though, they are seeking
connection with one another. Eri’s journey is represented by the darkness of
constant sleep, whereas Mari’s is represented by her physically wandering the
city after dark.
Similar to Mari, Eri also feels lost and out of touch with
her identity, and by extension, other people.
When the narrator first guides us through her room, it is clear that Eri
does not have much of an identity outside of modeling and TV shows. The narrator describes her space as “…by no
means a highly-decorated room. Neither
is it a room that suggests the tastes or individuality of its occupant” (page
26). He notes the five framed selfies
lined up on a shelf above her desk “As the room’s only decorative touch…” (page
27). To further cement this point, the
narrator notes that all five of these photos are of her alone. “None shows her with friends or family” (page
27). Finally, he comes right out and
says “[Eri’s room] gives the impression that preparations have been made to
hide her personality and cleverly elude observing eyes” (page 27).
If it were just the narrator’s observations of her room, one
could be forgiven for raising doubts about Eri feeling alienated and out of
touch with herself. However, Takahashi
tells Mari that he ran into Eri a while back and they had dinner together. He said that she was “…popping every kind of
pill you can imagine” and that she was “munching them like nuts” (page 122). (On a side note, who “munches” nuts?) Mari says that “She’s a total pill
freak. Always has been. But she’s been getting worse” (page
122). On the next page, Takahashi also
observes how he felt during his conversation with her.
“But…let’s see…I’m sitting there having this long talk with
your sister and, like, I begin to get this, uh, weird feeling. At first I don’t notice how weird it is, but
the more time that goes by, the stronger it gets, like, I’m not even here: I’m not included in what’s going on
here. She’s sitting right there in front
of me, but at the same time she’s a million miles away” (page 124).
As to why Eri’s in such a deep sleep, the text offers no
clear explanation other than hinting that she has emotional problems. However, there is one clue buried in Mari’s
conversation with Korogi at Alphaville that presents a plausible
explanation. On page 163, Mari tells
Korogi about her sister’s modeling and TV gigs.
Mari mentions that a show that Eri appeared on frequently ended and that
she was not able to find any more gigs on TV before she went to sleep. Perhaps losing her role on the TV show
created an identity crisis for her?
As her room suggests, Eri does not have much of an identity,
which could easily be interpreted as a spiritual issue. While Mari discusses how she sometimes feels
inferior to her sister, Takahashi notes that Eri also feels somewhat jealous of
Mari:
“Well, look. You’re
the kid sister, but you always had a good, clear image of what you wanted for
yourself. You were able to say no when
you had to, and you did things at your own pace. But Eri Asai couldn’t do that. From the time she was a little girl, her job
was to play her assigned role and satisfy the people around her. She worked hard to be a perfect little Snow
White-if I can borrow your name for her.
It’s true that everyone made a big fuss over her, but I’ll bet that was
really tough for her sometimes. At one
of the most crucial points in her life, she didn’t have a chance to establish a
firm self. If ‘complex’ is too strong a
word, let’s just say she probably envied you” (page 128-129).
In other words, Eri’s identity up to this point has been
based on appearing beautiful for a vast, faceless audience. While stuck in the TV, Eri even says to
herself “I’m a lump of flesh, a commercial asset” (page 114). Coincidentally, the same could be said for
Guo Dong Li. Her connection to Eri will
be discussed later.
In essence, Eri is the best example of how the text uses
light as a symbol for consumer culture and the dire, spiritual consequences its
expectations inflict upon people. This
is a direct reversal of light’s traditional role of being a symbol for
enlightenment. Eri is said to have a certain “radiance” to her, as Takahashi
notes. However, she constantly lends her
radiance not to the development of her own self, but to the glitz and glamor of
modern consumer culture.
Thus, the fact that she retreats into a deep sleep to get
away from this flashy world of day fits well within the overall theme of
engaging with one’s subconscious through a medium of darkness.
Further enforcing this theme, the world on the other side of
the TV screen is an empty version of Shirakawa’s office. The fluorescent lights are shining brightly
in the room, to the point of being intrusive and blinding. The light emanating from the TV screen is
described by the narrator as being “magnetic,” which makes sense given that Eri
gets sucked into the TV world. Eri
getting trapped in the TV also makes a lot of sense on this level because it
illustrates how her identity has been confined to her role as a beautiful girl
on TV.
At the same time, darkness also enables the anonymous man to
“commune” with Eri through the TV. To
further emphasize the night’s supernatural essence, the narrator notes that the
TV powers on even though it is not connected to the power outlet. By contrast, the TV tries to activate again
as dawn breaks, but fails to do so (page 196).
The latter implies that such supernatural, spiritual communion is
reserved for the medium of the night.
(On a side note, there’s a concept in Japanese culture called “Tsukumogami,”
or inanimate objects having spirits.
Therefore, the idea of the TV having its own spirit, or at least being a
conduit through which spirits can commune, dovetails nicely with the
supernatural, otherworldly atmosphere.)
Even the fact that a TV with a faceless man turns on and
watches Eri works well on this spiritual level.
More precisely, the text is making a reference to the surveillance TVs
in Orwell’s 1984. The text uses
the atmosphere of paranoia and suspicion lent by this allusion, plus the “Man
With No Face” in the TV, to illustrate how Eri is always being watched by the
“faceless” crowd beyond the TV cameras that record her performances. Not to mention that the narrator’s choice of
describing us as an invisible camera monitoring the room and other characters
lends itself well to this theme. As stated
by Komugi earlier on “The walls have ears – and digital cameras” (page 74).
Note that even when Eri is transported to the world of the TV, the faceless man
never touches her; he merely sits in his chair like before, intently watching
her with rapt attention until she awakens.
Right before she awakens, he disappears, which parallels how one-sided
Eri’s dilemma is: The vast, faceless
audience is always watching her, but she does not necessarily get the
opportunity to see these people, nor does she connect with them.
There is much speculation among readers concerning who, or what
exactly, this faceless man is. Suffice
to say, he is working mostly on a metaphysical level. He’s described as having a mask that is
form-fitting and translucent. The mask
“…has been both handed down from ancient times with darkness and sent back from
the future with light” (page 51). This
description suggests that this “mask” he is wearing is something universal to
humanity throughout the ages. Perhaps
the mask symbolizes the dual, individual vs. collective nature of humanity. The “mask” is such
that no one can tell what he is thinking or what his features are like. Almost as if this “mask” is the face itself…
More specifically, the Man With No Face works on two different levels:
1) On a macro level, he represents the vast, faceless collective of humanity. In Eri’s case, this is the audience that is constantly watching her on TV and in real life. He represents all the people that are metaphorically crushing her with their increasingly heavy expectations and their constant, imposing gaze.
2) On a micro level, he is Shirakawa. Or at least, Shirakawa’s metaphysical avatar. This is evidenced by the room in the TV being described as a deserted version of the office where he spends the night. Even more damning evidence presents itself as the dull, “Veritech” stamped pencil appearing in the room with Eri, which just so happens to be the same one that he is using to write code on his scratchpad.
In addition, their appearances are similar. Like Shirakawa, he’s dressed in a business suit, though they are of different colors. As mentioned before, Shirakawa appears very ordinary and “anonymous.” As the narrator notes, “Everything about [Shirakawa] is ordinary – height, build, hairstyle. If you passed him on the street, he would leave no impression” (page 71). This implies that the “mask” this faceless man wears is merely a manifestation of people’s propensity to forget Shirakawa’s face. It’s a fantastical, metaphysical manifestation of how Shirakawa blends into the overall “system” of “respectable society” at large.
A compelling question now arises. Why Shirakawa? Why is he the one making extrasensory
contact with Eri?
Similar to many other elements of the novel, the text leaves
this wide open to many different interpretations. Some readers speculate that Shirakawa has
raped Eri at some point in the past.
While I agree that he certainly has raped (and continues to rape) her,
it is not necessarily in the physical sense as much as a spiritual, or metaphysical
sense. After all, what is rape if not a
violation of one’s body and/or soul?
What initially made me think of Eri being raped was a
question that Takahashi raises:
“Say your sister is in some other Alphaville kind of place –
I don’t know where – and someone is subjecting her to meaningless
violence. She’s raising wordless screams
and bleeding invisible blood.”
Mari replies, “In a metaphorical sense?” (Page 130).
And Takahashi confirms.
One possible explanation is that Shirakawa is a distant
admirer of Eri’s. Perhaps he has an
unhealthy obsession and longs to act out some twisted fantasy with her. She has also stopped performing after
entering her deep sleep for the past two months. Judging by what Shirakawa’s wife says,
Shirakawa’s been working the night shift for approximately the same length of
time (page 84). However, he cannot find
Eri in the physical world. It is a
big city, after all. All he can do is
watch the TV and hope to see one of her programs, as well as continually
fantasize about her. In the meantime, he
settles for Chinese prostitutes that look like her. This may explain why he throws such a fit
when Dongli starts having her period; he’s waited for so long to find someone
that can come close to helping him realize his fantasy, only to be denied at
the last minute. Plus, it helps that
prostitutes like her have no legal recourse given their illegal alien
status.
However, within his psyche he continues to fixate on Eri’s
image while he works in the Veritech office.
This fixation is so powerful that the baser side of his psyche almost
develops into its own being in the form of the man with no face. This spirit then inhabits the TV in Eri’s
room and causes the screen to reflect the state of Shirakawa’s psyche. The fact that the TV is an empty version of
his office reflects Shirakawa’s fixation:
While he’s “working” in his office, all he can think about is Eri Asai
(and to some extent, the Chinese prostitute that looks a lot like her judging
by the way his right hand keeps throbbing).
All he wants to do is transport her into “his world” where she can be
forced to help him live out his fantasy.
Just to make sure readers did not miss the hint, the chapter
following Mari and Takahashi’s conversation about Eri and her issues features
Shirakawa working out in his office. The
narrator even explicitly says that the pencil he holds is the same one that Eri
picked up while she was trapped in the TV (page 132).
Coincidence? Probably
not.
Eri Asai and Guo Dong Li:
Spiritual Twin Sisters
As discussed before, it is plausible that Shirakawa bought
Guo Dong Li because she resembles Eri Asai.
There are several instances in the text which suggest that Eri and Dong
Li are similar on multiple levels.
For one, Mari feels a strong rapport with her while they
converse in Mandarin at the hotel. From
there, the text builds on this rapport.
Mari comes out and says that when she helped the prostitute at the
hotel, that she felt like she really wanted to be her friend. Mari says that she never felt that way about
anyone before. Takahashi notes that Mari could “feel her pain” (page 130). This is similar to how Mari wishes to be
closer to her sister, Eri.
Mari and Kaoru also comment on Dong Li’s beauty. Similar to Eri, Guo Dong Li has “well-shaped
breasts” (page 39). Later on, Mari
describes her sister as also being beautiful, to the point that she sometimes
feels “breathless” when she looks at her.
They both have long black hair and white skin, as well as similar
height.
Finally, Oda notes that the character for “Dong” (冬) in her
name means “winter,” perhaps to symbolize her plight of having to prostitute
herself (Oda 2). He notes that the text
uses similar, seasonal similes and metaphors to describe Eri Asai. As Oda notes, Eri’s “eyelids are closed like
hard "winter buds” and she’s in a “winter” state (Oda 11). The fact that she has been asleep so long evokes hibernation during the winter. Mari and
other characters also refer to Eri as “Snow White” several times throughout the
text. It is also no coincidence that Guo
Dongli comes from “Old Manchuria,” which is a region in northeastern
China. This region is known for its
cold, dry climate, further cementing the symbolic connection that Dongli has to
winter, and thus to Eri Asai.
The two women are suffering similar crises, just on
different levels: Dongli is suffering
from being physically violated, while Eri is suffering from being spiritually
violated.
On Doppelgängers and Duality
Throughout the novel several dualities present themselves,
each in varying degrees of prominence:
Night and day, society and the individual, civilians and criminals,
connection and alienation. The one most
relevant to this metaphysical theme topic is the duality shown in both Mari and
Shirakawa’s respective reflections.
As mentioned before, Shirakawa and Mari are both
“respectable” denizens of the world of the day.
The two are also relatively stoic and tend to not show their
emotions. They also share solitary
tendencies judging by the way Shirakawa likes working alone in the office at
night and Mari (at least in the beginning) ventured into the night to be on her
own.
However, on another deeper, almost spiritual level, the two
characters also share a similar experience different from those of the
others. Both Shirakawa’s and Mari’s
reflections are left behind in the respective bathrooms that they visit. In a sense, the way these characters’
reflections remain in the mirrors suggests a transition they undergo between
their “daylight” selves and their “after dark” selves. Their isolated, anonymous states, and their
individual, collective component selves.
Although they both undergo this spiritual transfer, their
destinations could not be more different.
For Mari, she is abandoning her walls, so to speak, and embracing the
human connections she has made. While in
the bathroom, her glasses and hat are taken off, and she washes “a sticky
substance” (page 65) from her hands. On
some level, the fact that she is freshening up after meeting Kaoru, Takahashi,
and the others at Alphaville could be read to suggest she’s *washing away* the
figurative *shell* that has separated her from others for much of her life.
After she finishes washing her hands, she stares into the
mirror intensely, “…as if she expects something to happen. She doesn’t want to miss the slightest
change” (page 66). “Then, as if urging
herself on, she bites her lip and nods at herself several times. She hangs her bag on her shoulder and walks
out of the restroom. The door closes”
(page 67). The way Mari bites her lip
and nods several times brings to mind someone mustering up the courage to dive
off of a high cliff for the first time.
Essentially, the text is showing what this means for Mari: She is taking the plunge into the communal
world that exists after dark. To stress
this point, the room slowly darkens after she leaves her reflection in the
mirror, “Her somber gaze seem[ing] to be expecting some kind of occurrence”
(page 67). This could be interpreted as
her leaving behind her old, isolated, daylight self in the bright Skylark.
Coincidentally, after Shirakawa’s done working out in the
office, he freshens up in the bathroom and also stares deeply into the
mirror. “He holds his breath and never
blinks, fully expecting that, if he were to stay like this long enough, some other
thing might emerge” (page 133).
Nothing happens while he is in there, but his subconscious objective is
achieved once he leaves: “Shirakawa’s reflection is still there in the
mirror. Shirakawa – or perhaps we should
say his image – is looking in this direction from within the mirror. It does not move or change expression. It simply stares straight ahead. Eventually, however, as though giving up, it
relaxes, takes a deep breath, and rolls its head. Then it brings its hand to its face and rubs
its cheek a few times, as if checking for the touch of flesh” (page 134). In a way, this could be figuratively read as
Shirakawa taking off his “dark” identity and hanging it on a coat rack. This “id” (as Freud might describe it) is
being left in the bathroom office, presumably for Shirakawa to don again
tomorrow evening when nobody is watching.
Unlike Mari, Shirakawa comes to the world of darkness so
that he can let his shadow loose, not necessarily to find deep interpersonal
connection. The text says that he has a
wife and kids. However, when he gets
home, the narrator outright states that Shirakawa will go to bed before his
family awakens. “The night is nearly
over, but for him the night will not end so easily. Soon his family will be getting up. He wants to be asleep by then for sure
(emphasis mine)” (page 174).
Right after this passage, there is a short paragraph at the
end of the chapter describing Mari sleeping, her face wearing “a look of
relief” (page 174). Setting a paragraph
involving Mari right after a scene featuring Shirakawa works to underscore their
polar-opposite natures. In other words,
they are a foil to one another.
As a result, although the text presents the darkness as a
place where one can find interpersonal connection and enlightenment, it also
underscores important nuances. Two of
these nuances is how one engages with the darkness and why
individuals might choose to do so. By
and large, the darkness of the city provides different ways for people to
commune. These can be either
enlightening or debasing. Obviously, the
city after dark also serves as a potential playground for the devil inside each
of us. Shirakawa works the late shift so
he does not have to interact with other people.
As a result, this gives him the opportunity to satisfy his base
desires. In a sense, he is finding a
sort of connection through intercourse with prostitutes, but ultimately, it is
shallow and destructive.
Takahashi, the Bridge Builder
It is worth discussing Takahashi’s large role in the
novel. His role spans all three of the
levels that are being discussed.
Takahashi has already reached a state of “After Dark.” Judging by his conversation with Mari where
he relays how he came to decide that he wanted to study law seriously, he has
already engaged with the darkness to achieve insight into his soul. He knows that he wants to study law seriously
and become a professional, and he is willing to give up playing trombone. Given that he plays trombone with his buddies
late at night, this implies that he will probably also give up his nocturnal
lifestyle. Thus, in a literal sense,
Takahashi has already reached that state of “After Dark,” but this serves to
underscore his spiritual state of being “after dark,” as well.
Further emphasizing the theme of darkness connecting people
socially and spiritually, Takahashi talks about what drove him to make his
decision. He had just finished watching
a murderer and arsonist receive the death penalty at the court in
Kasumigaseki.
“…all of a sudden I got this absolutely hopeless
feeling. I don’t know how to put
it: it was like the whole world’s
electricity supply suffered a voltage drop.
Everything got one step darker, one step colder. Little tremors started going through my body,
and I couldn’t stop shivering. Soon I
even felt my eyes tearing up. Why should
that be? I can’t explain it” (page
99).
Takahashi also discusses how he started connecting to the accused the more he listened to the trials. He started feeling as if “…there really was no such thing as a wall separating their world from mine. Or if
there was such a wall, it was probably a flimsy one made of papier-mâchié. The second I leaned on it, I’d probably fall
right through and end up on the other side.
Or maybe it’s just that the other side has already managed to sneak its
way inside of us, and we just haven’t noticed” (page 97).
These passages underscore how Takahashi has, in a way, gone
through his own version of the dark night of the soul. Juxtaposed to this darkness he speaks of, he
also mentions the thin, figurative wall that he could easily break through,
further emphasizing how the darkness can connect all of us on some level.
In many ways, Takahashi embodies the theme of this novel, starting with his name. “Takahashi” literally means “high bridge” (高橋) in Japanese. Considering Takahashi’s role in the novel, he performs to a tee.
For example, if not for Takahashi recognizing Mari in the
Denny’s, Mari would never have gotten the chance to meet Kaoru, Komugi, and
Korogi. Through meeting Kaoru, Mari gets
a chance at further self-actualization, as discussed previously.
He also accompanies her throughout much of her adventure in
Tokyo after dark. Not counting her first
time going to the Alphaville hotel and a few other instances, Takahashi always accompanies Mari while she traverses downtown Tokyo.
Most importantly, however, is that Takahashi serves as a
bridge between Mari and Eri. While the two of them are in the park feeding the
cats, Mari admits that she wishes she could be closer to Eri. To her surprise, Takahashi tells Mari that
her sister feels the same way towards her.
One could also argue that because of Takahashi’s connection
to Eri (and now Mari), Mari is able to remember the last time she felt close to
her sister. It is no coincidence that
Takahashi is the one with whom she shares this memory:
“’When I was in kindergarten,’ Mari begins, ‘Eri and I once
got trapped in the lift of our building.
I think there must have been an earthquake. The lift made this tremendous shake between
floors and stopped dead. The lights
went out, and we were in total darkness (emphasis mine). I mean, total: you couldn’t see your own hand. There was nobody in the lift, just the two of
us. Well, I panicked: I completely stiffened up. It was like I turned into a fossil right then
and there. I couldn’t move a
finger. I could hardly breathe, couldn’t
make a sound. Eri called my name, but I
couldn’t answer. I just fogged over: it was like my brain went numb and Eri’s
voice was barely reaching me through a crack.
‘…The important thing is that during that whole time in the
dark, Eri was holding me. And it wasn’t
just some ordinary hug. She squeezed me
so hard our two bodies felt as if they were melting into one. She never loosened her grip for a
second. It felt as though if we
separated the slightest bit, we would never see each other in this world
again’” (page 189).
“’The two of us became one:
there were no gaps between us. We
even shared a single heartbeat’” (page 190).
Since then the two of them drifted apart.
The reason this scene is placed at the end is that it is
emphasizing how far Mari has come through the aforementioned three levels of
darkness. Before she went on her
journey, she could barely remember a time when she could connect to her sister.
Had she not met Takahashi, she may never have been able to remember this
precious moment. Judging by the end of
the novel, this memory gave Mari the wherewithal to at least start crossing the
chasm between her and Eri.
Other, Interesting, Miscellaneous Patterns That May
Warrant Further Analysis
I hoped that by exploring darkness’ role, I would be able to
achieve a complete analysis of the novel.
However, the novel has many different dimensions to it. What follows are some patterns that, while
interesting, I did not know how to fit into this essay.
The Number Five
·
The novel title, After Dark is presumably
named after Curtis Fuller’s jazz piece, “Five Spot After Dark.”
·
There are also five main, point-of-view
characters: Mari, Eri, Takahashi, Shirakawa, and Kaoru. The young guy working at the 7-11 does not
count as a main character, nor does the Chinese gangster, even though the novel
is briefly told from their respective points of view. The wordcount comprising them is just too
small.
·
In Eri Asai’s room, there are five photos of
herself on a shelf above her desk
·
When Kaoru tracks down Shirakawa using the hotel
surveillance cameras, she prints out five copies of his image, even though the
Chinese gang member was the only one other person to whom she planned on giving
a copy. On some level, this may be
another way of connecting Eri and Shirakawa.
Fleeing
·
Kaoru asks Mari if she’s a runaway after they
first meet
·
Korogi says that she is running away from
terrible people for reasons unclear
·
Guo Dong Li, Kaoru speculates, most likely
wanted to flee China, but had no other way of doing so other than selling her
body to the gang members’ prostitution ring in exchange for passage
·
Eri Asai flees from something while she is
trapped in her television
·
Takahashi picks up the cell phone in the
convenience store only to be told that he will “never get away” (paraphrasing
here). Even though Takahashi knows that
it is a misunderstanding, he thinks that on some level it is quite accurate. He quickly exits the convenience store. He has been running all his life from
something. He grins at some inside joke
that the readers can only guess
· The young clerk in the convenience store also
picks up the cell phone and is told the same thing
Ears
Kaoru says that the Chinese gang members cut off the ears of
“respectable Japanese” that wrong them. It
is implied that this is what they will do when they find Shirakawa. At the same time, Takahashi has a deformed
earlobe. After getting hung up on by the
Chinese gang member after picking up the cell phone in the 7-11, “the sound of
the voice remains in his ear – like an absurd curse that leaves a bad
aftertaste” (page 178).
Sleeping Beauty
When I first read the part about Mari kissing her sister on
the lips, I was bewildered, to say the least.
However, it makes perfect sense.
“Somebody’ll kiss her and wake her up,” Korogi says to Mari
(page 164).
Thus, Mari’s desperately trying to make Eri wake up. She evens says this out loud (page 195).
Did Takahashi Rape Eri Asai?
The text raises the question, but I doubt it. There is no solid evidence that he did. Takahashi flat-out denies that he had sex
with her, but also states that he would not admit it to Mari even if he
did. Takahashi also makes some comments
and has thoughts that make the readers wonder if he indeed raped her. Maybe I'll write an essay about this.
Similar to some of the other characters’, Eri and Mari’s surname may be significant. “Asai” (浅井) literally means “shallow well.” The bottoms of wells play a big part in Murakami’s oeuvre, usually as portals to another world or state of being. In Eri and Mari’s case, it could reflect the crossroads that they stand at. Both of their souls are seeking a state of connection with others. Mari leaves the Tokyo of the day and travels to the other world of Tokyo after dark. Similarly, Eri leaves behind her glitzy world of fashion magazines and talent shows for the dark world of her slumber. Thus, if we accept what wells symbolize in Murakami’s work, their surname makes a lot of thematic sense.
Conclusion
Thanks for making it this far. This turned out to be a very long essay. I underestimated just how much I wanted to
unpack. For some reason, After Dark
has been percolating in my subconscious for so long. Maybe because it has the allure of being my
first Murakami book.
Many people have taken issue with the novel, citing it as
forgettable. There are many random
connections that do not really come together in any sort of coherent way. At least not on the surface. At the same time, one advantage of keeping
the story open is that it allows for many different interpretations of its
subtext. If anything, the greatest flaw
of the novel is that it is only subtext, with not much on the surface
like other novels that have a well-defined, tight plot. Many of Murakami’s other novels share this characteristic. Digging into some of his other books has
helped me to make some sense of this one because he tends to write about
similar themes and characters.
Nevertheless, if one looks at the darkness presented in the
story on the three levels discussed previously, one can get a better sense of
just what is going on. I hope that this
long-winded essay helps others to understand the novel better.
At any rate, feel free to leave comments. I always love experiencing books in many
different, intriguing ways.
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