Bad Things and Mystery

1. Why do we read and write about bad things?

After a discussion of the superlatively depressing Ethan Frome, a high school English teacher (who, admittedly, had a penchant for grandiose statements) turned to the class and told us that no “truly happy” novel had or would ever made it onto a course syllabus. After an indulgent pause for theatrical effect, she explained that it wasn’t that the English department was full of sadists; rather, it was because stories in which bad things happen simply made for better reads. The question begged back then was the same as that being asked of me now: why are “bad things” so captivating? It’s not merely that we demand realism from our novels. A “bad thing” does not make a compelling story; just because a goiter is an unfortunate thing that happens in real life doesn’t mean that its description would make for anything more than a tedious and nauseating reading experience. I think that the “bad things” that occur in stories (death, illness, betrayal, etc.) are captivating because they allow us either to experience vicariously something we have yet to confront or to relate to them through a personal experience—either way, “bad things” in novels, apart from often serving as the main impetus of narrative, teaches the reader about himself and his human condition.   

2. How does mystery drive Murakami’s “UFO in Kushiro?”

Mystery grabs the reader by the collar in this story from the very start—the title invokes a UFO (a sci-fi icon that is now almost synonymous with mystery) and so the reader begins with certain expectations of alienness that are denied immediately by the domesticity of the opening scene. Mystery occurs when the observer is denied linearity (i.e. distinct, causal explanation) and understanding, both of which are suspended in “UFO in Kushiro.” The questions that both the reader and Komura are constantly asking are “why?” and “what?” Why did his wife leave him and what the connection to the earthquakes in Kobe? Why do the unknown contents of the box start bothering him all of a sudden? What does Shimao mean at the very end that Komura is “just at the beginning?” And those are questions that Murakami takes special care never to answer; instead, the story presents itself as a series of enigmatic non-sequiturs between which there is no concrete causality or explanation. At the close, all we can say is that Komura’s wife leaves him “just because.” And just as we are not comfortable ending sentences ending sentences with “just because” (we are, in fact, taught that it is grammatically incorrect to do so)—the reader is not comfortable with the absence of explanation and is propelled through the story by his desire for one.