In the Miso Soup

Ryu Murakami

Though it's been a few years since I regularly smoked cigars, I sometimes find myself wanting to compare a particularly fine novel to a certain type of cigar. Not that anyone but an aficionado would know what I was getting at without an explanation anyway, but I just can't resist the urge sometimes. And In the Miso Soup is a perfect analogue to a Davodiff Double R; ease of ignition, smooth draw, slow, even burn, and above all, an excellent finish, the thing for which Davidoff cigars are noted. There are a whole lot of people who can write very good books. But those books just kind of end, a lot of the time. I've begun to think, in the past few years, that what separates a good writer (let's take Koji Suzuki as an example) from a great writer (such as Murakami) is the finish. Suzuki is more a Montecristo or a Moore and Bode-- a good, solid workingman's cigar, the kind of thing you smoke after a meatloaf dinner, beer in hand, watching NASCAR. Murakami demands sixteen-year-old scotch, steak so rare it could heal on its own if left to its own devices, and, well, championship table tennis or something.

Kenji is a young, enterprising Japanese guy who's gone into business for himself. He acts as a tourguide for foreigners who want a quick trip through Tokyo's sex industry. It's two days before New Years', and things are a little dead, but an eager American named Frank has hired Kenji for three days. There's something not quite right about Frank, and Kenji starts to wonder if he's not the serial killer presently at work in the area.

While on its surface In the Miso Soup is a thriller, it's a low-key one, keeping with Murakami's seeming tradition of writing in a completely new genre for each book he produces; this reads almost like a sociopolitical critique of the Japanese sex industry with a thriller sitting overtop it. What is most surprising about this is that Murakami actually manages to make this sort of thing work; the "message" novel, by default, is trite, boring, and not at all satisfying or readable. In the Miso Soup is none of those things, because Murakami has gifted it with strong characters, a story that is usually compelling (though it does sometimes waver, as if Murakami were not quite sure where he wanted to go with it), and above all his inimitable style-- the reason one can read this and the light comedy 69 and realize they're by the same guy, and the reason that one cannot help but be slightly shocked at the book's final sentence, and yet completely satisfied with the journey.

A pretty solid choice for this year's ten-best list.