We were knee-deep in finalizing a presentation during a meeting, passionately debating a problematic page. More of a one-sided outcry than a debate, really. I just wanted to sprinkle a little hope on the harsh reality portrayed on that page. Even if it required a little extra determination.
‘We’ve got to be honest, but also make it look good, right?’
It’s definitely a tough gig, but it shouldn’t be impossible. Otherwise, all this effort would be meaningless. You’ve got to slip in that ‘Aha!’ moment into the gaps in their minds, whether they’re empty or crammed full. And then it happened. My alarm went off. I glanced at the message for a moment.
‘Celebrate the release of Haruki Murakami’s new short story collection ‘First Person Singular’ with a sticker pack, while supplies last!’
Peeking at a message during a meeting, especially at a crucial moment of persuasion, was unlike me. I still don’t know why I did it. Maybe I just wanted to hide behind that message in that situation.
I’ve had the bookstore app for almost three years, but this was the first time it pinged me, and checking a message during a meeting was something I hadn’t done in a while. The whole scenario felt foreign, and so did the looks from everyone around me. In that uncertain moment, I decided to stop by the bookstore on my way home. And no, it wasn’t just for the sticker pack.
Walking to the bookstore, I pulled out my smartphone to search for ‘First Person Singular’. The book description already had 140 reviews. It seemed the message wasn’t sent on the release day. The chilly weather made my fingers ache. The morning news had mentioned it was the coldest day of the year. As I scrolled through the reviews, my fingers grew numb. There were plenty of praises, but also notes of disappointment. My scrolling stopped when I reached a review saying, ‘Surprisingly, the book is thin.’ I shoved my phone and hands into my pockets. Otherwise, the winter wind might have snapped my frozen fingers like twigs. Yet, that review kept echoing in my mind as I walked.
The reviewer mentioned the book was ‘thin’. Why make an observation instead of sharing feelings? Were they satisfied with the content? Or at least okay with its thickness? That sentence revealed nothing. It read like a part of a thesis—dry and clear, excluding emotions, just stating facts. What reaction did they expect from readers? Maybe they didn’t expect anything at all. But what if they did?
‘Surprisingly, the book is thin. You could probably breeze through it at the bookstore.’
That immediately made me think, ‘Should I just read it all at the bookstore?’ That thought quickly turned into a resolution. Lately, I’ve needed something like that.
Thanks to COVID, I was heading straight home after work for months. I’m not usually one for wandering, but I wasn’t as determinedly homeward-bound as if I were crossing the Ardennes like WWII German troops. But today was different—a day of breaking free, like a legendary warrior sneaking into enemy territory, executing a daring mission, and slipping away unnoticed. That review commanded me like Hitler, and I obeyed like Goebbels, goose-stepping to the bookstore.
The nearest cozy bookstore was almost empty, as expected. I stood before a new release display, grabbing one of the many copies of ‘First Person Singular’. Thin as the review suggested, it was a collection of eight short stories. Standing there, I devoured ‘With the Beatles’, ‘Cream’, ‘Charlie Parker Plays Bossa Nova’, and ‘Stone Pillow’. Then I swiftly exited and headed home.
The next morning, after breakfast, I headed to the large bookstore in Jamsil. Arriving at 9:30, I stood outside until they opened. I had my breakfast early and didn’t know the exact opening time. I hadn’t planned to wait by the door. A kind staff member, seeing me alone outside, opened the entrance at 9:24. I went straight to the bestseller display and picked up ‘First Person Singular’. I read ‘Yakult Swallows Poetry Collection’, ‘Carnival’, and ‘Confessions of a Shinagawa Monkey’ like a marathon runner. Finally, I reached the last story, ‘First Person Singular’. It was relatively short compared to the others.
The first half I read the day before was delightful, while the second half was just okay. If I had to sum it up, I’d say it was ‘decent’. Though many love his novels or essays, fewer are fans of his short stories. Personally, I enjoy Haruki’s short stories.
Novels allow authors to play to their strengths. Some excel with prose, while others rely on storylines. A strong point can carry a novel despite its flaws, leading readers to a satisfactory experience. People are more forgiving than you’d think. Or maybe just not that critical. But short stories offer no such leeway. Their brevity leaves little room to shine. Many short stories come off as amateurish, filled with uninspiring narratives and dull prose. But Haruki’s shorts are different. It’s hard to explain, but if I had to, I’d say they’re ‘strangely perfect’ in an odd way.
The later works seem like essays featuring Haruki as the protagonist, but online searches revealed they’re all fiction. (He never self-published ‘Yakult Swallows Poetry Collection’.) After breezing through the final story, ‘First Person Singular’, I briskly walked out of the bookstore. It wasn’t even 11 a.m. yet.
‘That was a perfect review.’
That’s exactly what I thought.
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