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This book has been compared to the movie Casablanca. Maybe it's because both involve a man and a woman who love each other but cannot be together (or choose not to be together) in the end. South of the Border, West of the Sun isn't a story of love, though; it is a story of life.
The thirty-seven year old Hajime had quite a pleasant life. He had a wife who loved him and two daughters whom he adored, not to mention two successful jazz bars. A happy family and a fulfilling career. This quiet life, however, changed when he met the beautiful Shimamoto-san.
Hajime and Shimamoto (one given name and one surname; I know it sounds strange, but Murakami-sensei didn't actually give full name to all his characters in this book) were childhood friends. Shimamoto had always been an important person to Hajime, even though he had never met her for twenty-five years. Meeting her again just made him realize how he needed her, to the point that he was ready to leave everything behind just to be with her. So, he was devastated upon finding out one morning that she had left. There's no way to ever find her because she refused to tell him in details about her past and present life. That last time, she disappeared from his sight for good.
Their relationship, I believe, is important not in itself but rather because of what it represents. It represents something lost that you wish wasn't but, were things to be repeated once more, would still be lost anyway. Hajime often wondered what would've happened if he had mustered the will to come over to Shimamoto's house even after they went to different junior highs. But he knew that that wouldn't have been the case; his thirteen year old self would not bother to go to a girl's home two train stops away. (And even though it hurt him to hurt his high school girlfriend, Izumi, he knew that he would've cheated on her with her cousin all over again.)
While we're at it, I should mention the title. "South of the Border" refers to the Nat King Cole's song Hajime and Shimamoto used to listen to as kids. They didn't really understand what the song was all about, so they used to think that there was something amazingly wonderful south of the border. Alas, it's only Mexico. As for west of the sun, it has something to do with Siberian farmer going mental, walking on and on to the west until he collapses to the ground and dies. So, the title possibly implies the concept of hope versus despair.
That's what life is all about, isn't it? You love and be loved, you hurt and being hurt; you hope and you lose hope; you acquire something, you're missing something. The question is: can you deal with it? Or would you rather die?
Nowadays people are in the habit of attending self-awareness, motivational, spirituality, and entrepreneurial "seminars". You know, events where renown experts talk about how to achieve connection with your inner-self, how to become a successful entrepreneur, how to become more motivated, that kind of thing.
I'm not--surprise, surprise--at all impressed with any of them. I make a point of never attending one. I don't quite remember if that's always the case, but I have a vague recollection about an occurrence when my suspicion towards such programs started.
My college alumni's association have this annual (or is it six-monthly?) "self-awareness" program for students and young graduates. It's very popular and quite a few of people from my department participated in it (some even took part more than once). Curious about what the fuss was all about, I asked a former participant about it. I didn't expect much, just the general outline of the program, what they were doing and the likes. You know what she said? She said, "We're not allowed to discuss it with outsiders."
You know what she reminded me of? A citizen of some Communist country that refused to divulge information about the workings of her lovely home nation. Especially considering that she didn't sign any confidentiality agreement of some sort. And to think that I wasn't nearly skeptical as I was now!
Basically, the whole thing smelled too much like propaganda and indoctrination to me. Maybe they are. Some motivators openly admit that their program is all about instilling suggestion into people's heads. The honesty doesn't make those programs less dubious, though.
Granted, the trainers/motivators/life-coaches are probably sincere, well-intentioned people. Some of the things they say really make sense, and they're merely helping people out. What's so wrong about it? Nothing, except that their methods are against my personal convictions.
One, you learn life's lessons when you're ready to learn it. You can pay much money to partake in such programs and gain nothing out of it, simply because you're not ready to learn it yet. If you get it you get it, if you don't then you don't.
Two, nothing good can come out of indoctrination. If nothing else, it takes conscious control out of you. You do things not because you choose to, but because you're programmed to do it. (Some programs required their participants to spend several days out of town. By replacing a subject from his/her familiar territory, the implantation of new ideas to a person's subconscious mind could be performed more effectively. It's scientific, you can check that.)
All the fancy stuff being said, it all comes down to this. Shouting out corny slogans like "Supah!" just isn't my style.
Note: Even though I don't believe in attending such programs, I have nothing against reading books on those topics. At least you have more control over yourself that way.
In 2001, when not quite so many people had cellular phones, a college friend of mine told me this. She hung out with her friends from high school. All her friends had a cell, but she didn't at that time. The point of a get-together is to catch up with each other and all, but instead of doing so, they were busy texting and almost completely ignored my friend.
Now, in 2009, the situation is worse. Cell phones are relatively cheap these days, so nearly every person has at least one cell. You also have to bear in mind the increasing number of services available on cell phone today. People are online twenty-four hours a day, checking out messages on various chat rooms and social networking sites and so on. The kind of woe my friend experienced eight years ago escalates into new heights.
I have had similar experience myself, and I didn't like it one bit. I hate it very much when someone prefers toying with his/her cell to appropriately interacting with people in his/her company. I have inkling that cell phone junkies everywhere would object to my objection, what's with personal freedom and all. But I think they're just justifying their rudeness. Everyone has the freedom to spit at somebody else's face, but that's just plain rude, so one who does not wish to offend someone else wouldn't do it.
The thing is that the way we treat someone reflects our respect for that person. Ignoring the person before you and choosing to interact with somebody else via text message or whatever shows just how much respect you have for that person, which is none at all. That includes talking to a person and doing something with your cell. You think you would do that if it's the president you're talking to? You wouldn't, right?
And because I'm such a spiteful person, my take on the subject of people glued to their cell phone is this: they deserve respect as much as their respect for others, period.
There's a fine line between politeness and bulls***ness. I couldn't quite tell which is which. Standard questions are put forth as a polite way to get a conversation going. But I wonder if "polite" is a correct depiction, because they seem to bug me to no end.
When I was a kid, adults used to ask the same set of questions over and over again. "How old are you?" "What grade are you in?" "Where do you go to school?" These questions bored me. If they were so interested, why couldn't they just memorize the answers? I thought.
At this point in my life the questions frequently issued for my benefit would be: "Are you married?" and "Where do you go to work?" These questions are just as mundane as the ones asked when I was younger. And they irked me more, not in themselves, but because of people's reactions towards my answers.
For your information, I'm a freelance translator. I know this is not the kind of job someone with a degree in Pharmaceutical Sciences usually takes. But I honestly can't stand people who said, "Why don't you work in a job relevant to Pharmaceutics? It's such a waste." Give me a break. Could anyone please show me one person that applies absolutely one hundred percent of the things they studied as student to the work they're doing? I bet they can't find any. And if school is all about getting a job, one needs not to bother. You need wits to become a super rich person, not a school diploma. As for why I choose a job seemingly unrelated to my education, that's my business. As if they really want to know why.
I also should mention that a surprising number of people don't understand what "freelance" means. That means I have to patiently explain to them that I'm not attached to a particular organization. But the part that makes me wonder if some people truly have a brain inside of their heads is when they asked--after I explained the above to them--again, "So, where do you work?" If there's one thing I can't put up with, it is stupidity that comes along with a lack of common sense.
Other comments that make my patience grow even thinner are: "Wow, aren't you bored? Working at home and all?" and "Why don't you look for something more stable?" The respond that I wish I have the guts to spurt out is: "As if you f****** care!" Every thing has its drawback, and I didn't comment on that aspect of their job, so why can't they just shut up?
But I guess what is bothering me the most is the fact that people who respond this way are the ones who don't know anything about me. They're not my friends or anything--we just happen to know each other due to accidental circumstances: same school, same acquaintances, that sort of thing. They don't care about me and, frankly, I don't care about them either. So why don't we all stop trying to be "polite" altogether?
Note: You might've already figured out that I'm not what you call a "nice" person. I'm not. I took the "What country hates you the most?" quiz in Facebook and my result was Switzerland. My temperament is so bad that even the good old Swiss dislike me.
So. It is commonly believed that the relative number of writers--novelists, poets, lyricists--who committed suicide is higher compared to that of other professions. I don't know if it's true or if anyone actually did a semi-scientific investigation on that matter.
But I guess what strikes people most about writers' suicide is their lack of apparent reason. People can understand if someone is prompted to commit suicide due to severe abuse inflicted upon him/her, financial difficulties, or chronic illness. But some of these writers were young, successful, famous, quite well-off, yet they took the plunge anyway. Writers' suicide becomes some sort of unsolved mystery that is romantic as much as it is creepy.
I'd like to say that I have a theory, a hunch if you will, about it. It's not something that needs to be taken too seriously but quite intriguing to mull over.
To become a good writer, you need to be sensitive and inquisitive. A good writer is honest in his/her works. Because of that, he will scrutinize a topic thoroughly, not just the positive aspects but also its cruel, harsh facet. He will see things unnoticeable by many, and they're not always lovely. The deeper he digs into it, the darker it gets. And, like it or not, it is this understanding that creates outstanding work of art. But it is also this understanding that can tear him into pieces.
Long story short, people of a particular profession adopt a certain mental attitude. A journalist friend of mine said that a lot of her fellow journalists ended up being pessimistic, having seen so many un-praiseworthy deeds of politicians and stuff. It's only normal for writers who deal with the subject matter of human nature to get depressed. The ones who cannot cope with it well might break down and choose to end their life instead of living the miserable existence of being.
I know it's all very complicated and hard to understand, so I'll wrap it up with a personal experience.
I wanted to write about human existence, mine in particular. So I thought long and hard about it. I finally concluded that my existence means nothing, neither to God, to my family, nor my friends. The thought threw my straight away into depression. Try to reflect on the things along that line long enough on day-to-day basis like some of those writers; it would be amazing if you don't start to want to kill yourself even when you're doing so.
Note: Speaking about writers who committed suicide, there's one writer in that category whose work I really wish to read but haven't: Yukio Mishima. Nevertheless, it seems that Mishima's suicide had nothing to do with depression. He was obsessed with bushido and eternal glory, as far as I know, and his decision was probably triggered by that kind of thing.
Reading Gone with the Wind, I was left with an uneasy feeling. It had nothing to do with The End of the Old South, slavery, or the KKK. It's because of a character named Ashley Wilkes.
Ashley Wilkes is Scarlet O'Hara's--the story's heroine, in case you don't know--love interest. He's basically everything that Scarlett isn't. He's a very serious, polite guy who likes talking about literature and philosophy and the likes. He's supposed to be a big guy, what with his intellect and all. But the Confederacy lost, the old ways gone, and he just doesn't have what it takes to survive the new era.
The thing is, Ashley reminded me of me. The book-smart who's clueless when it comes to the ways of the world, that's me alright. I'm very idealistic, and I love engaging myself in abstract thinking. In fact, sometimes I loathe the so-called realism and opportunism and practicality of people. Just because things are going as they are, why shouldn't we try picturing what should be or might be instead of accepting them as they are? is what I think.
But the most worrying thing about Ashley's/my personality is the unworldliness aspect. We're book-smarts. We're meant to excel in classroom, achieving success academically, that sort of thing. But that's it. We are confined to the world of ideas, but we are alien to the "real" world.
And what is so wrong with that, you may ask. Truth to be told, I don't know. Maybe because it makes communication with most people impossible (it's like we're on different wavelengths or something). Maybe because it means I'm a hopeless case who badly needs institutionalization. Maybe because an individual like me has no place in the modern society. Heck, I have no idea. Enlighten me.
"Doing what you like is freedom, but liking what you do is happiness." I rolled my eyes when I read that line for the first time. "Liking what you do is happiness," that sounds like something someone who hates his job, co-workers, and boss would say to himself so that he'd feel less miserable. You see where my sympathy lies.
Of course, it works the other way around. People might find the "Doing what you like is freedom" part a lame excuse produced by those who simply refuse to act responsible. Some people don't have the liberty to be picky, with wife and kids at home that need to be fed. So why not try to be content with what they do?
It makes sense, if you put it that way. I admit that I sometimes can't help wondering whether I'm a spoiled-brat. It took two extra semesters in college to make me realize that I can't do things I don't like. If I was forced to do otherwise, I would only screw up. Does it make me a childish person? Or merely a terrible selfish individual?
Despite my age, which qualifies me as a legal adult, I never feel that way at all. I do think that I have become wiser, but more mature? I have no idea. What does being an adult mean anyway? I suspect it has something to do with submitting yourself to what society deems appropriate. Surrendering yourself to the will of the tribe, that kind of thing. If that is people's idea of maturity, I'd rather not being a grown-up at all.
Were I to give my take on what being a grown-up means, it is this: the courage to take full responsibility for the consequences of your choices. You might do something because you like it, or because you have to. But bear in mind that what you eventually do is what you choose yourself. Things might not go according to plan, or they might yet you're still unsatisfied. Either way, you must not blame your boss, your family, the situation, or anybody and anything else besides yourself for them.
Maybe by doing so, you can one day wake up with no regret for everything you've done so far in your life, for a life well lived. Just maybe.
I'm hugely disappointed. After six years and two hundred-something good chapters and elaborate storyline, I expect something more than this ... this ending but no conclusion.
The story started with a boy, Syaoran, traveled through different dimensions to collect the scattered feathers containing memories of his childhood friend, Sakura; Kurogane, a banished ninja in need of learning some manners; and Fai, a mage running away from his home country; Mokona, a cute magical being capable of crossing dimensions. And what do we get in the end? They were all stranded in Clow Country--Sakura's home--without further explanation regarding what would happen to them afterwards. Would Syaoran stay in Clow Country for good? What about Kurogane, Fai, and Mokona? Would Kurogane be able to fulfill his vow to return to Nihon? What actually happened between Clow, Yuuko, and Fei Wong?
If only we Tsubasa fans could rely on the hope that xxxHOLiC would give us a more thorough explanation. Fat chance. I haven't seen any indication of that. Oh, CLAMP, why do you let us down?
I believe that most people see happiness as a kind of runner's high. You know, that exhilaration you get when you're running, on-top-of-the-world kind of feeling. When someone is asked what the single happiest moment in his life is, it's very unlikely for him to say, "Oh, the time when I wake up in the morning and hear the birds sing." Would anyone give such answer? When people say "happy moment", they usually refer to something that doesn't happen every day. They would think about special occasions, like birth, graduation, marriage, something along that line.
The funny thing is, you don't actually need something to happen in order to feel that out-of-this world joy. Just picture something good in your head, and you can feel a high as intense as if that something is a part of the physical reality. An imaginary trip to Japan, a visit to Old Trafford stadium, or anticipating the upcoming Harry Potter movie--they all can send me to cloud nine in an instant.
As far as I'm concerned, this imagined excitement constitutes a significant number of all my happiness. It doesn't mean that I live in a dream world or anything. If you consider that extraordinary events such as what I mentioned above don't happen often in real life, can I really help it if most of the joys I get come from my imagination?
But if we were to think along that logic, it would mean that nobody can truly be happy. A statement like "I'm happy with my life" would be a total crap if we were to understand "happiness" in that sense because, apart from those special occasions and wild imaginations, life was mainly pretty flat, consisted of a bunch of boring routine.
And since perpetual happiness is impossibility if we were to assume "happiness" as that endorphin-induced emotion, I shall reject that notion. We can only be happy continuously if we are unconditionally content with our being.
It seems that what prophets and spiritual teachers throughout history preach--cliché as it sounds--is true after all. Happiness is acceptance. Happiness is serenity. Happiness is being in the moment. Happiness is the lack of want. Happiness is accepting your existence. Your being you, it's all that matters.
Despite knowing that, my "ego" still gets in the way. I have yet to feel contented with the way I am, which is to say that I've got a long way to go to the place where true happiness lies.
I was kind of frustrated when I couldn't grasp the meaning of Haruki Murakami's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle. The story itself was enjoyable. I literally had to force myself to stop reading or else I wouldn't sleep at all--I had that much fun. Perhaps because the story was so full of weird stuff about "flow", Toru Okada's world vs Noboru Wataya's, Manchukuo, a bird winding up the world's spring, etc, I felt that it must mean something. It was way too amazing of a narrative to be a mere story.
Of course, one can always ask if it really is the case. It's possible that the opposite is true. Just because the story is good, it doesn't necessarily mean that Murakami-sensei wrote it to say grand, albeit vague, things like "Follow the path that you believe in" or "Opposite forces are at constant war in our world". Maybe he simply woke up one day with this plot in his head, which he wrote down eventually. That's it.
This way of thinking can be applied to whatever subject we wish to scrutinize. Take human existence, for instance. A particular person's existence. Say, mine.
Because my existence as I've realized it now has been so full of wonderful experience, and because I see myself as a one-of-a-kind individual, I incline to believe that my existence is special and meaningful. But is it really? To think that I'm just one of zillion of people that have walked the earth since the beginning of time, and to think that the majority of these zillion had long since dead and forgotten, it dawned on me how unimportant I am. Even if I was never born into this world, nobody would ever miss me. The people who were supposed to be my family and friends would not miss me since they never knew me in the first place (because I've never been born). My parents would probably have a child anyway; it's just that he/she would not be me.
In the Islamic tradition with which I was brought up, the supreme purpose of one's life is to serve God. It can be said that it is the meaning of one's life. But the fact is that God Almighty doesn't need us exalting His name. For Him, one's individual existence means nothing at all. One might live without acknowledging His existence and still it would cost Him nothing--the fact that a particular person doesn't believe in Him doesn't undermine His power. I mean, He might've never created me at all and it wouldn't make any difference to Him.
To put it bluntly, my existence as an individual means nothing to anyone. Neither to God, to the people I know, to the human race, nor to the universe. I am merely a replaceable sentient being.
So. It seems that the only one for whom my existence means something is myself. But is that valid? Am I not just talking in circles here? The analogy is this. If Murakami-sensei's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle exists for the sake of itself, can we still say that the book is meaningful, since whenever we say "meaning", we refer to something an object has in connection to other things outside it? (Replace "The Wind-up Bird Chronicle" and "the book" with "I"s if you will.) Is it possible that the so-called "meaning" presents independently within an object? Because if it's not it's very likely that my existence is indeed meaningless.
