A review by hotboychef
Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami

4.25

In the mountains around Kyoto, 1960, there is a sort of convalescence therapy commune where the patients and doctors grow vegetables together, escaped from the outside world.

The obvious appeal of this fictional retreat makes me think a lot about therapy, as I have done over the last year like never before.

The protagonist—not the one in therapy but the boyfriend—initially believes that he can move on from his loss by brushing the past to one side, hiding in his work and books. He spends most of his time alone, reading. 

Like him, I have often thought that I can therapise myself — with the help of a diary, giving time to myself, and being in a new surrounding. This entails delving into memories, though languishing and dwelling seem more appropriate words. He  replays situations in his head, and writes unsent letters. This sort of therapy is praised in the novel: ‘She’s letting out her feelings. The scary thing is not being able to do that. When your feelings build up and harden and die inside, then you’re in big trouble’.

The novel is elegiac, while questioning the benefit of elegy. What is the purpose? Is the writing a sort of therapy? There seem to be two answers given: overtly, the characters say that through remembering, you can learn to live with the pain while not forgetting it; however, they ultimately fail.

Books are themselves a form of therapy. Often its form is by aligning oneself with the characters. I think this is something I used to avoid, as it is considered juvenile manner of reading. But it is instinctive, especially when reading out of the framework of university.

It is also like how I imagine talking to a therapist would be, as you compare yourself to characters, and analyse. I often imagine conversations with therapists. Like playing chess, I predict how a conversation will progress from move to move. Like chess, though, there are unexpected moves, and perhaps that’s what a real therapist would provide: a shift in thinking that’s not possible on one’s own. 

Books can tell you what you already know about yourself, or they can expand and change that. Reading oneself as the protagonist is a manner of confirming your self. This is perhaps why it is considered juvenile.

But reading well also involves an expansion of the mind, approaching new territory, and providing the stimulus for ideas. Like sitting on an airplane or a train, reading forces you to figuratively and literally sit with yourself.

And this I think is the key to books’ therapeutic value: they force you to be on your own. Unlike TV or music, reading is necessarily solitary, and the relationship any individual forms with a book is unique.

I recently realised, and when I thought this I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t realised it sooner: my mental state is usually tied to how much I am reading. When I don’t have the time or the energy to read, I am not living properly, and I get confused and frustrated. It is a triple-sided coin: reading helps me to think and consider myself and the world; if I don’t have time to read then my life isn’t well balanced; so carve out time to read in order to create this balance. 

So in this sense, reading is a very real form of therapy, regardless of the content. It creates time to be alone.

The ending leaves unsaid whether he finds happiness, but he seems hopeful. His hope helps me think that this period where I feel alone and depressed is not a bad thing.