Haruki Murakami is not one for getting out and about much. Famously, the Japanese’s novelist’s day consists of running, writing, listening to jazz and going to bed at nine o’clock. He doesn’t waste his time getting gussied up for television appearances or prize-giving shindigs; the organisers of literary festivals are used to having their invitations politely declined.
That doesn’t mean, though, that Murakami wants to remove himself completely from the world. Indeed, in many ways he seems to long to be known by it. His 2007 memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running was a meditation not just on the pain and glory of doing the 2005 New York City marathon, but also a slant-wise glimpse into what he almost certainly doesn’t call his “process”. Now he is back again, but this time looking straight and hard at the whole business, or rather the vocation, of writing novels.
