The Frozen Sea Within Me

          Why are we drawn to stories in which bad things happen? I have a few reasons. Firstly, simply put, bad things affect us more, and are more memorable. Why is it that news channels constantly focus on murders, thievery, bombings, and the like? Perhaps we are drawn to them as a reaffirmation that we are lucky. "Others are worse off," we say, "let's not take what we have for granted." It is also true that our perception of reality and the world isn't golden, and so bad things seem to us more realistic. If our lives roll on smoothly for too long, we start expecting bad things to happen to us; we even touch wood for we feel too blessed, as if life will make us pay for our happiness. I believe it's also in our nature to be drawn to what is bad. Say, for instance, there are two books on the table: one is about something that is of interest to us, but then, we note that the one beside it has the words "Do not read" scrawled on the cover. Which one would you pick up? Something within us revels at the prospect of scandal, of horror, of things that should not happen but do. As I pondered this question, I couldn't help Franz Kafka's face protrude from my consciousness, for he once said: "A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us." We need books, as he claims, that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, that wound or stab us: "If the book we're reading doesn't wake us up with a blow to the head, what are we reading for?" I think reading about bad things makes us grow, because we wouldn't be thinking about them otherwise - we recognize the good within ourselves, but not the bad; good ol' Kafka again: "The kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to." So there you go. 

         I think Murakami's genius lies in recognizing that mystery makes us slaver with hunger at the prospect of unveiling a higher truth, or discovering some tragedy. He charges his story with details that we assume will resolve themselves by the end, and I found myself conjuring up different projections of what was eluding Komura. When he arrives at the airport, without the box in his hands, and wonders how they could have recognized him, I was sure something terrible was about to go down. We start reading into every word they say, devising theories about how the hell the earthquake, bears, and the UFO are all related, under the shallow assumption that mystery, in fiction, will be rewarded with answers. Life isn't like this, however, and that's why I loved the story. By the end, I realized Murakami had given us insight into the most important mystery of the story: Komura himself. But, just like him, we expect things to reveal themselves, to fit perfectly together, and our curiosity deviates us from what is truly important: what is inside of us. That elusive, frozen sea.