Those dastardly sailors can't be trusted. |
Few authors can distill the intricate, often overwhelming emotions of melancholy and loneliness into such simple, evocative prose as Haruki Murakami. What makes his writing extraordinary is how he masterfully sidesteps the saccharine or maudlin, delivering stories imbued with an authentic longing for genuine human connection. His ability to make this seem so effortless is quite astounding to me.
The titular story of Men Without Women exemplifies Murakami's inimitable craftsmanship—deceptively simple on the surface, yet brimming with complexity beneath. Paradoxically, while it seems like “nothing happens,” the story’s true action unfolds within the crevices of the protagonist's inner world, waiting for the reader to uncover it.
The premise is starkly minimalist: a man receives a late-night phone call from the husband of an ex-girlfriend, informing him of her suicide. That’s it. But the narrative’s focus isn’t on the event itself; instead, it delves into the protagonist's quiet reckoning—memories resurfacing, contradictory emotions swelling, and an understated exploration of grief.
What strikes me most about this story, and Murakami’s work as a whole, is his remarkable ability to balance tangential meanderings with subtle yet confident narrative control. In the hands of a less skilled writer, such an approach might easily unravel into nonsensical egotism. However, Murakami’s prose possesses an elusive, almost magical quality that allows these digressions to seamlessly coalesce into something profoundly beautiful. Familiar themes thread their way through: unrequited love, the ephemeral nature of life, and the dreamlike boundary between reality and imagination. His prose carries a delicate, almost ethereal quality that never fails to captivate me.
Murakami’s style isn’t for everyone, and even as one of my favorite writers, I find his work best enjoyed in small doses. Perhaps this explains why I’m drawn to his short stories, where his discursive approach feels more natural, even essential. While his novels have eluded me—unfinished on my bookshelf—the short-story form seems to elevate his strengths, distilling his themes into perfectly self-contained moments of reflection and wonder.
One of the few criticisms I have with this story—and Murakami’s work more broadly—is the undercurrent of misogyny that occasionally surfaces. While Murakami’s male protagonists are often deeply introspective, their views on women can sometimes feel toxic or patriarchal, framing them as enigmatic muses or vessels for male longing rather than fully realized individuals. Women are largely absent, fleeting, or rendered as catalysts for the male characters’ internal struggles.
This approach, while thematically consistent with Murakami’s exploration of solitude and disconnection, can feel limiting, even frustrating. The depiction of masculinity in his work often gravitates toward a kind of stoic detachment or quiet despair, and while this resonates with the emotional tenor of his stories, it also risks perpetuating a narrow, somewhat self-solipsistic view of male experience.
That being said, Men Without Women is still a solid effort and showcases many of the author’s strengths. It may not reach the heights of his finest short stories, but it remains an evocative meditation on loss, longing, regret and the unbridgeable distances between people. In the context of his extensive body of work, this story feels like a mid-tier entry—not lacking in merit but not quite achieving the transcendence of his most memorable pieces.