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What I Talk About When I Talk About Running
by Haruki Murakami
Reviewed by Wayne E. Yang
The image of the writer as hard drinking and chain smoking is difficult to erase, so it might provide at least some comfort to know that Haruki Murakami used to smoke. A lot. Until he decided years ago that he would have to become more fit if he wanted to last as a writer.
Of course, it makes sense that a celebrated writer like Murakami would be highly disciplined. His book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running delves into his regimen as a writer and talks about the lifestyle he leads to become a strong one. It serves as his memoir on both running and writing. Some parallels in the activities are obvious: the solitariness, the obstinacy needed to slog through miles or words (as the case might be), the frequent vagueness of their objectives. Why is it not surprising, for instance, that the talented, prolific Joyce Carol Oates is also a runner?
Writing is a form of manual and mental labor, says Murakami. Writing, like running or singing or photography is one of those activities that everyone thinks they can do; one that most everyone thinks he or she can do well, in fact. Yet not everyone has the endurance to put in the grueling amount of time to become a master. "If you have the strength to lift a coffee cup, they figure, you can write a novel. But once you try your hand at it, you soon find that it isn't as peaceful a job as it seems."
The book indulges in more musing than, say, Benjamin Cheever's Strides (which goes back and forth between Cheever's personal interest in running and a history of the sport), or the memoir of Paula Radcliffe, the highly decorated professional U.K. runner whose tolerance for pain is other worldly. Besides the cataloging of Murakami's many marathons and triathlons, there are meditative-like passages in his book to which the non-runner might have difficulty relating. We follow him around the world in his chase, hardly always puritanic. In Boston, he drinks his Samuel Adams draft beers, eats Dunkin Donuts and admires the Harvard co-eds that share the running paths along the Charles River. In France, he completes the Marathon du Medoc, which combines running, wining and dining. The hotch-potch still bears Murakami's stamp as he conveys his distinct philosophy on running and writing.
Like the runner, the writer sees the height of his powers decline as he ages. Yet there are certain things that the writer does better as he gets older. He knows himself better as a writer. He develops tricks to overcome his limitations. But there is no doubt that age ultimately reduces us and causes us to question our ambitions. The slippage can be alarm inducing, but the reality is one with which the writer must grapple. Keep at anything long enough, says Murakami, and "it becomes a contemplative, even meditative act."
"As I write, I arrange my thoughts," says Murakami. "And rewriting and revising takes my thinking down even deeper paths. No matter how much I write, though, I never reach a conclusion. And no matter how much I rewrite, I never reach the destination."
--
Wayne E. Yang lives and works in New York. His writing has appeared in The North American Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Dim Sum and other publications.
by Haruki Murakami
Reviewed by Wayne E. Yang
The image of the writer as hard drinking and chain smoking is difficult to erase, so it might provide at least some comfort to know that Haruki Murakami used to smoke. A lot. Until he decided years ago that he would have to become more fit if he wanted to last as a writer.
Of course, it makes sense that a celebrated writer like Murakami would be highly disciplined. His book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running delves into his regimen as a writer and talks about the lifestyle he leads to become a strong one. It serves as his memoir on both running and writing. Some parallels in the activities are obvious: the solitariness, the obstinacy needed to slog through miles or words (as the case might be), the frequent vagueness of their objectives. Why is it not surprising, for instance, that the talented, prolific Joyce Carol Oates is also a runner?
Writing is a form of manual and mental labor, says Murakami. Writing, like running or singing or photography is one of those activities that everyone thinks they can do; one that most everyone thinks he or she can do well, in fact. Yet not everyone has the endurance to put in the grueling amount of time to become a master. "If you have the strength to lift a coffee cup, they figure, you can write a novel. But once you try your hand at it, you soon find that it isn't as peaceful a job as it seems."
The book indulges in more musing than, say, Benjamin Cheever's Strides (which goes back and forth between Cheever's personal interest in running and a history of the sport), or the memoir of Paula Radcliffe, the highly decorated professional U.K. runner whose tolerance for pain is other worldly. Besides the cataloging of Murakami's many marathons and triathlons, there are meditative-like passages in his book to which the non-runner might have difficulty relating. We follow him around the world in his chase, hardly always puritanic. In Boston, he drinks his Samuel Adams draft beers, eats Dunkin Donuts and admires the Harvard co-eds that share the running paths along the Charles River. In France, he completes the Marathon du Medoc, which combines running, wining and dining. The hotch-potch still bears Murakami's stamp as he conveys his distinct philosophy on running and writing.
Like the runner, the writer sees the height of his powers decline as he ages. Yet there are certain things that the writer does better as he gets older. He knows himself better as a writer. He develops tricks to overcome his limitations. But there is no doubt that age ultimately reduces us and causes us to question our ambitions. The slippage can be alarm inducing, but the reality is one with which the writer must grapple. Keep at anything long enough, says Murakami, and "it becomes a contemplative, even meditative act."
"As I write, I arrange my thoughts," says Murakami. "And rewriting and revising takes my thinking down even deeper paths. No matter how much I write, though, I never reach a conclusion. And no matter how much I rewrite, I never reach the destination."
--
Wayne E. Yang lives and works in New York. His writing has appeared in The North American Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Dim Sum and other publications.
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