A Rather Limp 'First Person Singular'

I was placed 72nd in the NLB e-book reservation queue for Haruki Murakami’s newest book, ‘First Person Singular’「一人称単数」(originally published in Japanese in July 2020), translated by Philip Gabriel and published in English in April 2021. 

I rolled eyes at the queue. Many fans the author has, or perhaps curious people like me wanting to read it too. At this rate, I wouldn’t be reading this book till next year. They had only one digital copy then. Dunno if they got more, because suddenly, two days later, I was informed that the book was ready for my borrowing. Oh, okaaaay.

One of the stories included 'Confessions of a Shinagawa Monkey', which was earlier published in The New Yorker in June 2020. I found it to be a damn annoying Monkey. I suppose that this is the Monkey in the author's mind when he decided on the cover of this collection. (Reviews here, here, here, here and here.) 

The story opened with yet another middle-aged male narrator, titled 'Cream'. This story was published in The New Yorker in January 2019, of which the protagonist annoyed me too. Hahaha. I honestly dunno why I bother to read it. The second story 'On A Stone Pillow' is new to me. It's just a little story about a man musing a snippet of his past, like it's banal. The protagonist had a chance hookup with his colleague. It was a utilitarian sort of relationship. The woman is also a budding poet who wrote tanka. 

I'd like to tell a story about a woman. The thing is, I know next to nothing about her. I can't even remember her name, or her face. And I'm willing to bet she doesn't remember me, either.

When I met her, I was a sophomore in college, and I'm guessing she was in her mid-twenties. We both had part-time jobs at the same place, at the same time. It was totally unplanned, but we ended up spending a night together. And never saw each other again. 

The final story in the book is eponymously titled. A middle-aged man went out to have a vodka gimlet at the bar while his wife went to dinner with one of her girlfriends. He minded his own business, read a book until a woman interrupted him. A woman, whom he perceived to be antagonistic towards him. The woman seemed to know him. He cannot remember what happened in the past; he felt he had been unfairly treated. At the end of the story, one grows no closer to learning what on earth this entire encounter or story is about. It ended abruptly and unsatisfyingly.

"I'm a friend of a friend of yours," she said in a quietly firm tone. "This close friend of yours—this person who used to be your close friend, I should say—is quite upset with you, and I am just as upset with you as she is. You must know what I'm talking about. Think about it. About what happened three years ago, at the shore. About a horrible, awful thing you did. You should be ashamed of yourself."

I honestly dunno why I bothered to read this. The entire collection of eight short stories is limp. The Murakami Man strikes again and the female gender is distinctly missing, and along with it, more and more... how do I put it, lackadaisical? Misogynistic? Banal? Sometimes I don't like random tales that don't seem to end anywhere. I don't want a short 'insight' into someone's head. It's cloudy and irritating. After this, I think I don't want to pick up another book by Murakami. I'll just stick to short stories that are published here and there.