South of the Border, West of the Sun: A Novel

By Haruki Murakami and Philip Gabriel

South of the Border, West of the Sun is the beguiling story of a past rekindled, and one of Haruki Murakami’s most touching novels.

Hajime has arrived at middle age with a loving family and an enviable career, yet he feels incomplete. When a childhood friend, now a beautiful woman, shows up with a secret from which she is unable to escape, the fault lines of doubt in Hajime’s quotidian existence begin to give way. Rich, mysterious, and quietly dazzling, in South of the Border, West of the Sun the simple arc of one man’s life becomes the exquisite literary terrain of Murakami’s remarkable genius.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
• Release date: Aug 11, 2010
• ISBN: 9780307762740

Haruki Murakami

Haruki Murakami (Kioto, 1949) es uno de los pocos autores japoneses que han dado el salto de escritor de prestigio a autor con grandes ventas en todo el mundo. Tusquets Editores ha publicado todas sus novelas —Tokio blues. Norwegian Wood, Crónica del pájaro que da cuerda al mundo, 1Q84 y La muerte del comendador, entre otras—, cinco libros de relatos, y ensayos como Underground, De qué hablo cuando hablo de correr, De qué hablo cuando hablo de escribir o Música, sólo música, además de dos relatos bellamente ilustrados: La chica del cumpleaños y Tony Takitani. Murakami ha recibido numerosos premios, entre ellos el Noma, el Tanizaki, el Yomiuri, el Franz Kafka, el Jerusalem Prize o el Hans Christian Andersen, y su nombre suena reiteradamente como candidato al Nobel de Literatura. En España ha merecido el Premio Arcebispo Juan de San Clemente, la Orden de las Artes y las Letras (concedida por el Gobierno español), el Premi Internacional Catalunya 2011 y, recientemente, el Premio Princesa de Asturias de las Letras 2023. La ciudad y sus muros inciertos, su obra más reciente, es una novela melancólica y filosófica sobre el amor perdido y el autodescubrimiento.

Book preview

1

My birthday’s the fourth of January, 1951. The first week of the first month of the first year of the second half of the twentieth century. Something to commemorate, I guess, which is why my parents named me Hajime— Beginning, in Japanese. Other than that, a 100 percent average birth. My father worked in a large brokerage firm, my mother was a typical housewife. During the war, my father was drafted as a student and sent to fight in Singapore; after the surrender he spent some time in a POW camp. My mother’s house was burned down in a B-29 raid during the final year of the war. Their generation suffered most during the long war.

When I was born, though, you’d never have known there’d been a war. No more burned-out ruins, no more occupation army. We lived in a small, quiet town, in a house my father’s company provided. The house was prewar, somewhat old but roomy enough. Pine trees grew in the garden, and we even had a small pond and some stone lanterns.

The town I grew up in was your typical middle-class suburbia. The classmates I was friendly with all lived in neat little row houses; some might have been a bit larger than mine, but you could count on them all having similar entranceways, pine trees in the garden. The works. My friends’ fathers were employed in companies or else were professionals of some sort. Hardly anyone’s mother worked. And most everyone had a cat or a dog. No one I knew lived in an apartment or a condo. Later on I moved to another part of town, but it was pretty much identical. The upshot of this is that until I moved to Tokyo to go to college, I was convinced everyone in the whole world lived in a single-family home with a garden and a pet and commuted to work decked out in a suit. I couldn’t for the life of me imagine a different lifestyle.

In the world I grew up in, a typical family had two or three children. My childhood friends were all members of such stereotypical families. If not two kids in the family, then three; if not three, then two. Families with six or seven kids were few and far between, but even more unusual were families with only one child.

I happened to be one of the unusual ones, since I was an only child. I had an inferiority complex about it, as if there was something different about me, that what other people all had and took for granted I lacked.

I detested the term only child. Every time I heard it, I felt something was missing from me—like I wasn’t quite a complete human being. The phrase only child stood there, pointing an accusatory finger at me. Something’s not quite all there, pal, it told me.

In the world I lived in, it was an accepted idea that only children were spoiled by their parents, weak, and self-centered. This was a given—like the fact that the barometer goes down the higher up you go and the fact that cows give milk. That’s why I hated it whenever someone asked me how many brothers and sisters I had. Just let them hear I didn’t have any, and instinctively they thought: An only child, eh? Spoiled, weak, and self-centered, I betcha. That kind of knee-jerk reaction depressed me, and hurt. But what really depressed and hurt me was something else: the fact that everything they thought about me was true. I really was spoiled, weak, and self-centered.

In the six years I went to elementary school, I met just one other only child. So I remember her (yes, it was a girl) very well. I got to know her well, and we talked about all sorts of things. We understood each other. You could even say I loved her.

Her last name was Shimamoto. Soon after she was born, she came down with polio, which made her drag her left leg. On top of that, she’d transferred to our school at the end of fifth grade. Compared to me, then, she had a terrible load of psychological baggage to struggle with. This baggage, though, only made her a tougher, more self-possessed only child than I could ever have been. She never whined or complained, never gave any indication of the annoyance she must have felt at times. No matter what happened, she’d manage a smile. The worse things got, in fact, the broader her smile became. I loved her smile. It soothed me, encouraged me. It’ll be all right, her smile told me. Just hang in there, and everything will turn out okay. Years later, whenever I thought of her, it was her smile that came to mind first.

Shimamoto always got good grades and was kind to everyone. People respected her. We were both only children, but in this sense she and I were different. This doesn’t mean, though, that all our classmates liked her. No one teased her or made fun of her, but except for me, she had no real friends.

She was probably too cool, too self-possessed. Some of our classmates must have thought her cold and haughty. But I detected something else—something warm and fragile just below the surface. Something very much like a child playing hide-and-seek, hidden deep within her, yet hoping to be found.

Because her father was transferred a lot, Shimamoto had attended quite a few schools. I can’t recall what her father did. Once, she explained to me in detail what he did, but as with most kids, it went in one ear and out the other. I seem to recall some professional job connected with a bank or tax office or something. She lived in company housing, but the house was larger than normal, a Western-style house with a low solid stone wall surrounding it. Above the wall was an evergreen hedge, and through gaps in the hedge you could catch a glimpse of a garden with a lawn.

Shimamoto was a large girl, about as tall as I was, with striking features. I was certain that in a few years she would be gorgeous. But when I first met her, she hadn’t developed an outer look to match her inner qualities. Something about her was unbalanced, and not many people felt she was much to look at. There was an adult part of her and a part that was still a child—and they were out of sync. And this out-of-sync quality made people uneasy.

Probably because our houses were so close, literally a stone’s throw from each other, the first month after she came to our school she was assigned to the seat next to mine. I brought her up to speed on what texts she’d need, what the weekly tests were like, how much we’d covered in each book, how the cleaning and the dishing-out-lunch assignments were handled. Our school’s policy was for the child who lived nearest any transfer student to help him or her out; my teacher took me aside to let me know that he expected me to take special care of Shimamoto, with her lame leg.

As with all kids of eleven or twelve talking with a member of the opposite sex for the first time, for a couple of days our conversations were strained. When we found out we were both only children, though, we relaxed. It was the first time either of us had met a fellow only child. We had so much we’d held inside about being only children. Often we’d walk home together. Slowly, because of her leg, we’d walk the three quarters of a mile home, talking about all kinds of things. The more we talked, the more we realized we had in common: our love of books and music; not to mention cats. We both had a hard time explaining our feelings to others. We both had a long list of foods we didn’t want to eat. When it came to subjects at school the ones we liked we had no trouble concentrating on; the ones we disliked we hated to death. But there was one major difference between us—more than I did, Shimamoto consciously wrapped herself inside a protective shell. Unlike me, she made an effort to study the subjects she hated, and she got good grades. When the school lunch contained food she hated, she still ate it. In other words, she constructed a much taller defensive wall around herself than I ever built. What remained behind that wall, though, was pretty much what lay behind mine.

Unlike times when I was with other girls, I could relax with Shimamoto. I loved walking home with her. Her left leg limped slightly as she walked. We sometimes took a breather on a park bench halfway home, but I didn’t mind. Rather the opposite—I was glad to have the extra time.

Soon we began to spend a lot of time together, but I don’t recall anyone kidding us about it. This didn’t strike me at the time, though now it seems strange. After all, kids that age naturally tease and make fun of any couple who seem close. It might have been because of the kind of person Shimamoto was. Something about her made other people a bit tense. She had an air about her that made people think: Whoa—better not say anything too stupid in front of this girl. Even our teachers were somewhat on edge when dealing with her. Her lameness might have had something to do with it. At any rate, most people thought Shimamoto was not the kind of person you teased, which was just fine by me.

During phys. ed. she sat on the sidelines, and when our class went hiking or mountain climbing, she stayed home. Same with summer swim camp. On our annual sports day, she did seem a little out of sorts. But other than this, her school life was typical. Hardly ever did she mention her leg. If memory serves, not even once. Whenever we walked home from school together, she never once apologized for holding me back or let this thought graze her expression. I knew, though, that it was precisely because her leg bothered her that she refrained from mentioning it. She didn’t like to go to other kids’ homes much, since she’d have to remove her shoes, Japanese style, at the entrance. The heels of her shoes were different heights, and the shoes themselves were shaped differently—something she wanted at all costs to conceal. Must have been custom-made shoes. When she arrived at her own home, the first thing she did was toss her shoes in the closet as fast as she could.

Shimamoto’s house had a brand-new stereo in the living room, and I used to go over to her place to listen to music. It was a pretty nice stereo. Her father’s LP collection, though, didn’t do it justice. At most he had fifteen records, chiefly collections of light classics. We listened to those fifteen records a thousand times, and even today I can recall the music—every single note.

Shimamoto was in charge of the records. She’d take one from its jacket, place it carefully on the turntable without touching the grooves with her fingers, and, after making sure to brush the cartridge free of any dust with a tiny brush, lower the needle ever so gently onto the record. When the record was finished, she’d spray it and wipe it with a felt cloth. Finally she’d return the record to its jacket and its proper place on the shelf. Her father had taught her this procedure, and she followed his instructions with a terribly serious look on her face, her eyes narrowed, her breath held in check. Meanwhile, I was on the sofa, watching her every move. Only when the record was safely back on the shelf did she turn to me and give a little smile. And every time, this thought hit me: It wasn’t a record she was handling. It was a fragile soul inside a glass bottle.

In my house we didn’t have records or a record player. My parents didn’t care much for music. So I was always listening to music on a small plastic AM radio. Rock and roll was my favorite, but before long I grew to enjoy Shimamoto’s brand of classical music. This was music from another world, which had its appeal, but more than that I loved it because she was a part of that world. Once or twice a week, she and I would sit on the sofa, drinking the tea her mother made for us, and spend the afternoon listening to Rossini overtures, Beethoven’s Pastorale, and the Peer Gynt Suite. Her mother was happy to have me over. She was pleased her daughter had a friend so soon after transferring to a new school, and I guess it helped that I was a neat dresser. Honestly, I couldn’t bring myself to like her mother very much. No particular reason I felt that way. She was always nice to me. But I could detect a hint of irritation in her voice, and it put me on edge.

Of all her father’s records, the one I liked best was a recording of the Liszt piano concertos: one concerto on each side. There were two reasons I liked this record. First of all, the record jacket was beautiful. Second, no one around me–with the exception of Shimamoto, of course–ever listened to Liszt’s piano concertos. The very idea excited me. I’d found a world that no one around me knew—a secret garden only I was allowed to enter. I felt elevated, lifted to another plane of existence.

And the music itself was wonderful. At first it struck me as exaggerated, artificial, even incomprehensible. Little by little, though, with repeated listenings, a vague image formed in my mind—an image that had meaning. When I closed my eyes and concentrated, the music came to me as a series of whirlpools. One whirlpool would form, and out of it another would take shape. And the second whirlpool would connect up with a third. Those whirlpools, I realize now, had a conceptual, abstract quality to them. More than anything, I wanted to tell Shimamoto about them. But they were beyond ordinary language. An entirely different set of words was needed, but I had no idea what these were. What’s more, I didn’t know if what I was feeling was worth putting into words. Unfortunately, I no longer remember the name of the pianist. All I recall are the colorful, vivid record jacket and the weight of the record itself. The record was hefty and thick in a mysterious way.

The collection in her house included one record each by Nat King Cole and Bing Crosby. We listened to those two a lot. The Crosby disc featured Christmas songs, which we enjoyed regardless of the season. It’s funny how we could enjoy something like that over and over.

One December day near Christmas, Shimamoto and I were sitting in her living room. On the sofa, as usual, listening to records. Her mother was out of the house on some errand, and we were alone. It was a cloudy, dark winter afternoon. The sun’s rays, streaked with fine dust, barely shone through the heavy layer of clouds. Everything looked dim and motionless. It was nearing dusk, and the room was as dark as night. A kerosene space heater bathed the room in a faint red glow. Nat King Cole was singing Pretend. Of course, we had no idea then what the English lyrics meant. To us they were more like a chant. But I loved the song and had heard it so many times I could imitate the opening lines:

Pretend you’re happy when you’re blue

It isn’t very hard to do

The song and the lovely smile that always graced Shimamoto’s face were one and the same to me. The lyrics seemed to express a certain way of looking at life, though at times I found it hard to see life in that way.

Shimamoto had on a blue sweater with a round neck. She owned a fair number of blue sweaters; blue must have been her favorite color. Or maybe she wore those sweaters because they went well with the navy-blue coat she always wore to school. The white collar of her blouse peeked out at her throat. A checked skirt and white cotton socks completed her outfit. Her soft, tight sweater revealed the slight swell of her chest. She sat on the sofa with both legs folded underneath her. One elbow resting on the back of the sofa, she stared at some far-off, imaginary scene as she listened to the music

Do you think it’s true what they say—that parents of only children don’t get along very well? she asked.

I mulled over the idea. But I couldn’t figure out the cause and effect of it.

Where did you hear that? I asked.

"Somebody said that to me. A long time ago. Parents who don’t get along very well end up

Reviews for South of the Border, West of the Sun

[senner007-138880 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Most of the time I read murakami books for their immersive dreamlike environment. Once finished though, I find that I rarely think about the book I've just finished. This was not the case with this book. There were important themes about Life choices. Having to choose between different desires -- some raw passion vs wise -- and having to live with the consequences of those choices. Hajime was a flawed character but also relatable. Shimamoto made me think of the ones that got away. Izumi made me think of all of those folks that hurt me or vice versa in love and life. Yukiko the stable virtuous partner that doesn't cause someone pain and as such doesn't elicit passion. Even the themes around her father being a corrupt businessman or the early story about being an only child or interesting and have stayed with me.

[clue_4 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Hajime grows up in a small Japanese town just after WWII. From childhood into his thirties we are party to both his thoughts and to the results of his decisions. At the age of twelve he meets Shimamoto, another student at his school. She is also an only child and they go to his home after school, listen to records, and talk about things they are troubled by. When they begin going to different schools they grow apart but meet again in their thirties when Hajime is a husband and father.

I enjoyed Murakami's dreamlike writing but don't think this book will be memorable to me.

[crsito · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A Murakami more in the style of Tokyo Blues, not so deep and with some shallow and appealing mysteries. In the end, you want to know what happens because you develop an attachment to the character, but it's not especially captivating. (Translated from Spanish)

[Pacotu · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I will start by saying that I am a devoted fan of Murakami. From there, this novel has everything I expect from him: ordinary stories mixed with absurd ones, with very strange situations, characters that seem normal but are not at all... everything very normal until it stops being so. You never know where it will take you, and that's why I always have the curiosity to read his books. The truth is that every time I start one of his novels, it's as if I'm abducted and pulled into his world, and I don't emerge from it until I finish. The fact is that I enjoy reading him, and I think that's what's important. (Translated from Spanish)

[Ceci Damiani ✨ · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Is it true that the only true love is the first one???

The novel begins with the narrator at twelve years old. At school, he starts to connect with Shimamoto, a very sensitive girl with a leg defect. A pure friendship, as they often are at that age.

Later, we see the narrator as an adult during his sexual beginnings, as he meets other women, studies, works, and even gets married and has two daughters. With a "politically correct" family and very emotionally and financially balanced, the past comes back to him. He encounters Shimamoto again, which makes him reconsider his entire life?

Eastern literature is often characterized by feelings of sadness, loss, and loneliness, and this novel is no exception. A very sensitive novel that makes us reflect a lot about true love, about knowing and listening to oneself, and about respect for others. How easy is it to follow our heart when it can destroy other people?

I had put the author on pause because I was so excited about reading him non-stop during my adolescence, and I had to let it rest because I fell into the trap of thinking they all seem the same, but returning to it was a beautiful experience. A truly wonderful and brief novel, highly recommended for those starting out with him? (Translated from Spanish)

[castlelass · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Hajime tells the story of his relationships from age twelve through thirty-seven. When he was twelve, he developed a close friendship with Shimamoto, and even when they moved away from each other, she stayed in his mind and heart. At age seventeen, his first intense relationship is with Izumi, whom he hurts deeply. He meets his future wife, Yukiko, at age thirty. Her father helps him go into business as the manager of two jazz bars. Hajime and Yukiko seem to have a wonderful life together, but their relationship is strained when Shimamoto comes back into the picture.

The primary focus of this book is how a relationship can succeed or fail based on choices, how people can get hurt even when intentions are good, and the harmful consequences of obsession. It also questions the nature of reality, even to the point where I wondered if some of what appears to have really happened may have been Hajime’s imagination. Of course, the more I read Murakami’s works, the more I appreciate that figuring out what is real (and not) is part of the charm.

[diegogt0 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Another book that Murakami writes with genius, simplicity, and enough ability to keep you captivated from beginning to end. The way each page unfolds with that subtle narrative about the life of Hajime, the protagonist, makes us evoke Tokyo in that moment, to be part of all his experiences, his memories, his loves, and not to forget that there will always be music involved. This book was one of the last I needed from the great Japanese writer, and it ranks at the top of the bests. The final part is quite disruptive. (Translated from Spanish)

[JaviKidA · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book deals with two particular themes: monotony and guilt. That conflicted and difficult moment when you have to choose whether to abandon your dreams and personal goals in exchange for a safer path (whether it's a secure job, a business, or a family). That moment when you think you lack nothing, and in truth, you may not be missing anything, but the human being will never be complete; they will always want more or something different, and that is where the mistakes we need to learn from come in.

Now let's talk about guilt, and a phrase that best explains all of this is the following: the world keeps spinning even after your mistake. Here the story shows us how our character does not overcome the damages he caused in his youth, and these will explode in a definitive way at the most calm, peaceful, and happy moment of his life, a life where he has a great business, a wife he loves, and two daughters.

Once someone told me that guilt is not bad; on the contrary, it is the way of telling us that we are human beings and that we still have common sense to admit we were wrong. But it is important to know that if we can do something about it, we should; we shouldn't torture ourselves or drag that guilt along and let it destroy us when it reaches its peak.

The book is very direct with these messages, so yes, I loved it, although I must admit that while it aims to reach the point of acknowledging that the protagonist is a simple human who makes mistakes, you hate him (or at least in my case), you hate him a lot for his way of thinking, expressing himself, and at times, justifying his actions.

The ending is the most open I've read from Murakami, as I could imagine up to four different conclusions, and although it is not filled with magical realism, it inserts elements to create such a world.

To conclude, I want to give an honorable mention to the title of the book, which relates fantastically to the story. I recommend it… (Translated from Spanish)

[Feraskolnikov · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Shimamoto embodies the divine torment of Hajime, a 38-year-old "successful" man who contemplates whether it would have been better to regret what he could have done in his time. As Márquez would say in "Love in the Time of Cholera," the man ceased to suffer from the "torments of memory." The visceral ambivalence leads to a Hajime who cannot distinguish between memory and reality, while Shimamoto is that sweet poison that permeates Hajime's life. Furtive episodes showcase the struggle between forgiving the past or living with it.
I was left intrigued at the end. Who placed their hand on Hajime's shoulder when he felt that his strength had abandoned him? Was it Yukiko or Shimamoto? Was Shimamoto truly a real person? Did Shimamoto die and come as an alter ego to know what it was like to love the always beloved?
Questions that make me a participant in the whirlwind that Hajime endured.
An excellent novel. (Translated from Spanish)

[Talia Llive · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

From the first page, it hooked me; I wanted to read a novel that would allow me to set aside my ego for a moment, and I thought that Murakami would be a good option. But I have to confess that no matter how much I try to avoid seeing myself reflected in a book, in a way it is inevitable; the stories we share as human beings are very similar: love, betrayal, disloyalty, frustration, feelings of emptiness, joys, fears, darkness, and shadows. The books of this writer move me in such a way that they penetrate every pore, question me, unveil feelings I thought I had forgotten. Simple writing that is instantly enjoyable, a master at telling sexual aspects written in the most elegant and subtle way; I think that is one of the parts I like most about the writer. He makes you feel alive, human like any other, sinful at times, above all human. It has nothing to do with the book, but I feel grateful for books like this; reading has helped me to judge less, to put myself in the other person's shoes, to listen more to the other side, to the other who is different from oneself, to question much more. (Translated from Spanish)

[Luis SZ OZ · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The "maybe" in our lives can become a burden due to good or bad decisions. South of the border, west of the sun; it encourages me to keep going and reclaim what I want in my life. (Translated from Spanish)

[m.belljackson · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

South of the Border, West of the Sun is a truly fine title. I wish the book had lived up to this promise.

As the first and only Murakami book I've read, it will be the last since obsessive, selfish male adultery doesn't interest me
anymore than women entering a man's life knowing that will destroy his family.

The author's insights into the inner life of only children was insightful, as was his early friendship with Shimamoto.

That the plot delved into sleazy lies and cheating was very disappointing.
readers may also tire of hearing about his girlfriend's Salems and her endless smile.as she tries too hard to be enigmatic.

No Will Power?

[Lunamita · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A totally captivating story. (Translated from Spanish)

[lunaodd5 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

My favorite of the ones I read by Murakami because of how it's written, magic with words, I went to another planet for a while. (Translated from Spanish)

[solberdejo · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

How many things do we do without being aware of our actions? What do we do to escape reality? Have you ever felt tied to a life you didn't want?

This novel leaves you thinking a lot; Murakami not only tells us a story about a 37-year-old man, married, with two children and career success, but he also speaks to us about the miseries we carry, shows us our fragility, and in just over 200 pages, shatters us and drags us into a schisto and sublime world. (Translated from Spanish)

[DMS · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

First time reading Murakami. I thought about the ending for a long time. I recommend it!! (Translated from Spanish)

[VictoriaRG · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Encounters. Disencounters. Reencounters.
Friendship. Emptiness. Desire. Love. Loyalty.
More than thinking and analyzing a concatenation of facts and consequences, Murakami takes the reader to feel. This is the first of his works that reaches me. From the beginning, I knew it would be one of those that are remembered. Because I found myself reflecting, in the midst of a journey of sensations; because it made me relive passages of my life, because it made me wonder if we will all ever be able to experience what Hajime and Shimamoto feel. And the truth is that we all, to a greater or lesser extent, have suffered disappointments, perhaps have caused wounds.
A simple plot. A profound, transformative way of telling.
I can only give it 5 stars and invite you to read it. (Translated from Spanish)

[PaauCuenca · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

It's the first title I've tackled by Haruki, and I must say I expected a bit more from it; I’ve seen that 1Q84 is the author’s favorite. But I must say it’s a story of introspection, which is what we want from life, from ourselves, as individuals and as couples or families. That feeling of always being incomplete. Human beings are very complex; every mind is a universe unto itself. Finding the love of your life since childhood, idealizing a person, and maintaining that for years only to suddenly realize like a bucket of cold water that that love isn’t what you had been holding onto for so many years. Give it a chance. (Translated from Spanish)

[Grafito66 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is, clearly, one of the contemporary authors among my favorites. He is capable of creating atmospheres full of sensitivity, sensuality, reflection, or emotion. He often resolves the stories or not, but they leave a lot of seeds of thought within you. In this tale, once again, he shines by endowing the characters with daily life and at the same time with mystery. With unresolved psychology, with incompleteness. It is a love story within another love story and also others. Murakami navigates between nostalgic glances and executive life. Personal becoming and unexpected surprises, and at the same time not so unexpected. I liked it very much. (Translated from Spanish)

[YaniGatti · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It left me with the feeling that everything in life is a choice, and that there are opportunities that are unique. Even so, there are no absolutes, not even in love; all types of love can coexist within us. It is the first time I read this author, and honestly, I liked it a lot! Some excerpts are also interesting for working with adolescents. (Translated from Spanish)

[Antoine LeBlanc · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It's incredible how a story that seems like a soap opera can become so captivating.

The handling of the pace is just right to keep one's interest. Many writers should study this type of work. (Translated from Spanish)

[Digenesantacruz · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Fine and exquisite... it deserves a place in your library. (Translated from Spanish)

[Virginia Flores-Morales · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I loved and suffered every page... (Translated from Spanish)

[Gemasaba · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A beautiful love story, it is true that you are left wanting to delve deeper into some stories and events that remain half-finished. This is very typical of Murakami, and it happens in other novels like Kafka on the Shore. I liked it a lot, despite the fact that it is not as surreal as most of his novels, where the dreamlike world is so present. (Translated from Spanish)

[Jerónimo Alanya Saccsa · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It is the first work I read by HARUKI MURAKAMI. It has a language accessible to all ages, although not so much the thematic approach. It captivated me from the beginning to the end, which is why I embraced it in less time than planned. There is realism and magical realism, an extraordinary narration. Recommended. (Translated from Spanish)

[mandathestrange · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Although it is a small book, it provoked many feelings and I felt that it was quite different to Murakami's other novels. I usually can relate very much to Murakami's protagonists, however to be honest I thought Hajime was a selfish asshole and I didn't like him, not one bit.

However this book was powerful, the decisions you make in your life are extraordinarily important and really no matter how hard you try, you can never go back. I feel that Murakami was trying to convey this particular message through this novel and he really hit the nail on the head.

Despite Hajime being a total asshole (although it takes good writing for me to hate a character with so much passion) A very memorable read.

[srtaleescribir · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

How exciting it is for me to write my second review of a book by this author.

I must tell you that my opinion is completely subjective. Also, I adore Murakami, but if I don’t say that I loved it and that I highly recommend it, I couldn’t start.

I would divide this story into four parts. The current life of Hajime at 37 years old, where it could be said that he has everything to be happy with Yukiko, but the book starts when he is 12 years old.

There he meets Shimamoto, a girl who deeply affects him, with whom he enjoys music, companionship, and friendship. A few years later, they start high school and that relationship fades.

In high school, a bit older, Hajime has his first girlfriend, Izumi, and despite this, he is a free spirit. At all times, Murakami makes this clear, but there are actions that are unforgivable.

After this, Hajime becomes a lonely person. He has a monotonous job, a sad and boring life, and I think everything he could think, reflect on, and delve into made people from his past inevitably mark his future.

At 37, his past returns to him. In this part of the book, I couldn't put it down. I understood this last part in a very magical way.

Murakami is the kind of writer who makes you believe you understand, yet also makes you feel lost. Especially in his endings. Do you know how many times I’ve turned that ending around?
I’ve driven @liveletraslove crazy. I went to ask @papaquiereleer for answers, and I've driven them mad with my assumptions.

This book, because of its last part (as I label it), will stay with me.

I can’t stop thanking @rosibooks because one day she recommended this book by the author to me, and I am eternally grateful, because I needed it not to disappoint me, and it hasn’t.

For me, based on how I felt reading it, the way it captivated me, the tension with which I lived certain parts, it deserves to stand alongside Tokyo Blues as a great book. (Translated from Spanish)

[AdrianaDiperna · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The first book I read by Haruki Murakami.. I loved it! The story and the music! (Translated from Spanish)

[Labibliodenat · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A nostalgic and somewhat sad novel in true Murakami style. Impossible love and very similar to Norwegian Wood, undoubtedly beautiful but nothing extraordinary, one of the least liked works by my favorite author. (Translated from Spanish)

[Mr.Amparo · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

SOUTH OF THE BORDER, WEST OF THE SUN

Intense as Arabian coffee, hypnotizing like watching the pendulum in a session, and above all the Murakami cut that stands out for its ability to keep the reader interested in the plot, with a fluid and descriptive style... quite descriptive... that makes you imagine every detail and immerse yourself in the story, reading it quickly to its conclusion.

After a past with certain disappointments, Hajime, a mature man with a wife, 2 wonderful daughters, and owner of 2 very successful jazz venues, believed he had finally found a full and peaceful life, THE FAMOUS PERFECT LIFE that most of us wake up at dawn trying to reach... until, after 20 years everything is shaken, following his reunion with Shimamoto, a childhood and adolescent friend he remembers nostalgically and who marked him deeply. They shared a very close friendship where they enjoyed music, readings, and hobbies together. However, the years passed, and they both lost track of each other, but what happens when they reunite? What will Hajime be willing to do?

I liked this novel, as in a way I identified with each of its characters, but especially with Hajime, its main character. And many of us are sometimes faced with the dilemma of choosing between "the safe and stable love," that we experience in our day-to-day life and for which we feel calm, or trading all that "stability" for a passionate and overwhelming love, a spark that can ignite and burn your life in a second... making you doubt what you really want, what truly matters, and WHAT MAKES YOU HAPPY.

In conclusion, there are several points that after reading several of his books pique my curiosity; in my opinion, the ending of the story is questionable, you have to tie up loose ends to create your own ending regarding what happened with one of the protagonists. Also, allow me to disagree with the author's fans, and for my humble critique, do not label me a heretic, but his supposedly original characters have a very similar hue, at least in the books I have read. On the other hand, it's very well done to include musical and cultural references; that grabs a lot of attention, especially from the contemporary reader, but for me, it becomes a cliché. And for anyone who has read more than one book by the author, this must seem familiar... Two protagonists, almost always man and woman, a café or restaurant, sleepless nights, a person with physical problems, active sex between the pages... among others. I still recommend it... this is my VERY PERSONAL CRITIQUE!!!!

Remember..... If you liked my review or any of our coworkers' reviews, please tap the ❤ next to where it says, "Did you like this review?" In any case, both hearts... Thank you very much. ?? (Translated from Spanish)