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Hear the wind sing ; and, Pinball, 1973 / Haruki Murakami.

By: Murakami, Haruki, 1949- [author.].
Contributor(s): Murakami, Haruki, 1949-. Kaze no uta o kike. English | Murakami, Haruki, 1949-. 1973-nen no pinbōru. English.
Material type: materialTypeLabelBookPublisher: London : Harvill Secker, 2015Copyright date: ©2015Description: 162, 152 pages ; 23 cm.Content type: text Media type: unmediated Carrier type: volumeISBN: 9781846558351.Uniform titles: Novels. Selections. English Subject(s): Men -- Fiction | Roommates -- Fiction | Loneliness -- Fiction | Japanese fiction -- Translations into English | Japan -- FictionGenre/Form: Literary fiction.DDC classification: 895.6/35 Summary: Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball, 1973 are Haruki Murakami's earliest novels. They follow the fortunes of the narrator and his friend, known only by his nickname, the Rat. In Hear the Wind Sing the narrator is home from college. He spends his time drinking beer and smoking in J's Bar with the Rat, listening to the radio, thinking about writing and the women he has slept with, and pursuing a relationship with a girl with nine fingers. Three years later, in Pinball, 1973, he has moved to Tokyo to work as a translator and live with indistinguishable twin girls, but the Rat has remained behind. The narrator finds himself haunted by memories of a past relationship but also by his short-lived obsession with playing pinball in J's Bar. This sends him on a quest to find the exact model of pinball machine he used to enjoy so much.
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Item type Current location Collection Call number Copy number Status Date due
Fiction Davis (Central) Library
Fiction Collection
Fiction Collection MUR 1 Checked out 14/06/2020

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

Wind/Pinball includes Haruki Murakamiâe(tm)s first two novels, published back-to-back, available for the first time in English outside Japan. With a new introduction by the author.

Published as a reversible hardback

'If youâe(tm)re the sort of guy who raids the refrigerators of silent kitchens at three oâe(tm)clock in the morning, you can only write accordingly.

Thatâe(tm)s who I am.'

Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball, 1973 are Haruki Murakamiâe(tm)s earliest novels. They follow the fortunes of the narrator and his friend, known only by his nickname, the Rat. In Hear the Wind Sing the narrator is home from college on his summer break. He spends his time drinking beer and smoking in Jâe(tm)s Bar with the Rat, listening to the radio, thinking about writing and the women he has slept with, and pursuing a relationship with a girl with nine fingers.

Three years later, in Pinball, 1973 , he has moved to Tokyo to work as a translator and live with indistinguishable twin girls, but the Rat has remained behind, despite his efforts to leave both the town and his girlfriend. The narrator finds himself haunted by memories of his own doomed relationship but also, more bizarrely, by his short-lived obsession with playing pinball in Jâe(tm)s Bar. This sends him on a quest to find the exact model of pinball machine he had enjoyed playing years earlier: the three-flipper Spaceship.

Translations of Kaze no uta o kike, and of 1973-nen no pinbōru.

Two titles printed tete-beche.

Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball, 1973 are Haruki Murakami's earliest novels. They follow the fortunes of the narrator and his friend, known only by his nickname, the Rat. In Hear the Wind Sing the narrator is home from college. He spends his time drinking beer and smoking in J's Bar with the Rat, listening to the radio, thinking about writing and the women he has slept with, and pursuing a relationship with a girl with nine fingers. Three years later, in Pinball, 1973, he has moved to Tokyo to work as a translator and live with indistinguishable twin girls, but the Rat has remained behind. The narrator finds himself haunted by memories of a past relationship but also by his short-lived obsession with playing pinball in J's Bar. This sends him on a quest to find the exact model of pinball machine he used to enjoy so much.

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Excerpt provided by Syndetics

The twins woke me up on Thursday morning. Fifteen minutes earlier than usual, but what the heck. I shaved, drank my cof­fee, and pored over the morning paper, so fresh from the press that its ink looked ready to smear my hands. "We have a favor to ask," said one of the twins. "Think you can borrow a car on Sunday?" said the other. "I guess so," I said. "Where do you want to go?" "The reservoir." "The reservoir?" They nodded. "What are you planning to do at the reservoir?" "Hold a funeral." "Who for?" "The switch panel, of course." "I see," I said. And went back to my paper.   Unfortunately, a fine rain was falling Sunday morning. Not that I knew what sort of weather befitted a switch panel's funeral. The twins never mentioned the rain, so neither did I. I had borrowed my business partner's sky-blue Volkswagen Beetle. "Got a girl now, huh?" he asked. "Mm," I answered. His son had smeared milk chocolate or something all over the back­seat, leaving what looked like bloodstains from a gunfight. Not a single one of his cassette tapes was any good, so we spent the entire hour-and-a-half trip in silence. The rain grew stronger, then weaker, then stronger, then weaker again, at regular inter­vals. A yawn-inducing sort of rain. The only constant was the steady whoosh of oncoming traffic speeding by on the paved road. One twin sat in the front passenger seat, the other in the backseat, her arms around a thermos bottle and the shopping bag that held the switch panel. Their faces were grave, appropri­ate for a funeral. I matched my mood to theirs. We maintained that solemnity even when we stopped to eat roasted corn. All that broke the silence was the sound of kernels popping off the cob. We gnawed the cobs bare, tossed them away, and resumed our drive. The area turned out to be populated by hordes of dogs, who milled around in the rain like a school of yellowtail in an aquarium. As a result, I spent a lot of time leaning on the horn. The dogs showed no interest whatsoever in either the rain or our car. In fact, they looked downright pissed off by my honk­ing, although they scampered out of the way. It was impos­sible, of course, for them to avoid the rain. They were all soaked right down to their butt holes--some resembled the otter in Balzac's story, others reminded me of meditating Buddhist priests. One of the twins inserted a cigarette between my lips and lit it. Then she placed her little hand on the inner thigh of my cot­ton trousers and moved it up and down a few times. It seemed less a caress than an attempt to verify something. The rain looked as if it would continue forever. October rains are like that--they just go on and on until every last thing is soaked. The ground was a swamp. It was a chilly, unforgiving world: the trees, the highway, the fields, the cars, the houses, and the dogs, all were drenched. We climbed a stretch of mountain road, drove through a thick stand of trees, and there was the reservoir. Because of the rain there wasn't a soul around. Raindrops rippled the water's surface as far as the eye could see. The sight of the reservoir in the rain moved me in a way I hadn't expected. We pulled up next to the water and sat there in the car, drinking coffee from the thermos and munching the cookies the twins had bought. There were three kinds--buttercream, coffee cream, and maple--that we divided up into equal groups to give everyone a fair share. All the while the rain continued to fall on the reservoir. It made very little noise. About as much as if you dropped shred­ded newspaper on a thick carpet. The kind of rain you find in a Claude Lelouch film. We ate the cookies, drank two cups of coffee each, and brushed the crumbs off our laps at exactly the same moment. No one spoke. "Shall we?" one of the twins said at last. The other nodded. I put out my cigarette. Leaving our umbrellas behind, we picked up the switch panel and marched to the end of the dead-end bridge that jutted out into the water. The reservoir had been created by damming a river: its banks followed an unnatural curve, the water lapping halfway up the mountainside. The color of the water suggested an eerie depth. Falling drops made fine ripples on the surface. One of the twins took the switch panel from the paper bag and handed it to me. In the rain it looked even more pathetic than usual. "Now say a prayer," one of the twins said. "A prayer?" I cried in surprise. "It's a funeral. There's got to be a prayer." "But I'm not ready," I said. "I don't know any prayers by heart." "Any old prayer is all right," one said. "It's just a formality," added the other. I stood there, soaked from head to toenails, searching for something appropriate to say. The twins' eyes traveled back and forth between the switch panel and me. They were obvi­ously worried. "The obligation of philosophy," I began, quoting Kant, "is to dispel all illusions borne of misunderstanding . . . Rest in peace, ye switch panel, at the bottom of this reservoir." "Now throw it in." "Huh?" "The switch panel!" I drew my right arm all the way back and hurled the switch panel at a forty-five-degree angle into the air as hard as I could. It described a perfect arc as it flew through the rain, landing with a splash on the water's surface. The ripples spread slowly until they reached our feet. "What a beautiful prayer!" "Did you make it up yourself?" "You bet," I said. The three of us huddled together like dripping dogs, looking out over the reservoir. "How deep is it?" one asked. "Really, really deep," I answered. "Do you think there are fish?" asked the other. "Ponds always have fish." Seen from a distance, the three of us must have looked like an elegant memorial. Excerpted from Wind / Pinball: Two Novels by Haruki Murakami All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

This production offers two early Murakami novels newly translated into English by Ted Goossen, with a new introduction, "The Birth of My Kitchen-Table Fiction." These are well arranged and given an excellent reading by Kirby Heyborne. Both stories are coming-of-age tales of the unnamed narrator and his drinking buddy, a rich university dropout, the Rat, who was a main character in A Wild Sheep Chase, the first Murakami novel translated into English. As in much of the author's work, the trivial becomes important, the extraordinary may become commonplace, and the ordinary becomes bizarre, supernatural, or meaningless. Decisions are made, or not made, according to maintaining the status quo, with little thought or feeling that one might influence an outcome. All of this is punctuated with cigarette smoke and dulled by alcohol. -VERDICT This audio is well worth a listen and is a solid choice for adult collections. Since the novels are not truly sequential, a pause to let the first work settle in before continuing with the second is advised.-Cliff Glaviano, formerly with Bowling Green State Univ. Libs., OH © Copyright 2015. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Publishers Weekly Review

This volume collects the first two novels, written in 1978 and never before published in the U.S., by internationally acclaimed Japanese author Murakami. Hear the Wind Sing is a touching and almost totally uneventful sketch of a record-collecting regular at J's Bar, his quiet romance with a nine-fingered woman, and his friendship with a ne'er-do-well called the Rat. Pinball recounts the same narrator's student days on the eve of the Vietnam War, his encounter with identical twins known as 209 and 208, and how he and the Rat become swept up in "the occult world of pinball." Introspective to the minute, both short novels have an almost Beat-generation feel in their depiction of 20-something life in Japan during the 1970s. Reader Heyborne's languid narration fits well with the elegiac tone of the author's prose. His slow, almost robotic reading of the descriptive passages accentuates Murakami's subtle, strange imagery amid simple prose. These two loosely connected, sometimes wandering stories from a first-time novelist destined for greatness are diamonds in the rough, but Heyborne helps them shine. A Knopf hardcover. (Aug.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

Booklist Review

These two short novels, never widely available in English, were Murakami's first published works. Written in the early 1970s, when the author was running a Tokyo jazz club, they display seeds of the style and tone that would eventually evolve into the mature Murakami. The first of the two, Hear the Wind Sing, follows a lonely college student through the idle days of a school vacation, hanging out with his best friend, Rat, similarly at loose ends, and wandering into an affair with an older woman. In Pinball, the same narrator embarks on a quest to find the specific pinball machine, now vanished, on which he amassed phenomenal scores. Both stories show Murakami learning to find reservoirs of emotion both beneath the apparent flatness in tone and within his seemingly diffident narrators, pointing toward the secret selves that would become a staple in his later fiction, especially in the shorter works such as After Dark (2007). The author's fans will find Murakami's introduction, in which he discusses his life in the '70s and his early attempts at writing, every bit as interesting as the stories themselves.--Ott, Bill Copyright 2015 Booklist

Kirkus Book Review

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