TONY TAKITANI

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AUTHOR – HARUKI MURAKAMI

PUBLISHED IN – 2005

PAGES – 44

 

SPOILERS AHEAD.

It was a short story and just a simple read. The story starts off with Tony’s father, Shozaburo Takitani who was a Jazz musician and how due to his charming personality, he got along with everyone. After giving birth to Tony, his mother died in a couple of days, leaving his father devastated. He took no interest in forming a bond with his son and just simply bought him up. Tony had no complaints. He wasn’t a charmer and preferred to be by himself, often spending his time in perfecting his art skills. In a short while, Tony grows up in demand in the market because of his brilliant artistic skills and the knowledge with which he could sketch out even the most intrinsic machines. Soon enough, he is in his thirties and has managed to make a small fortune out of himself. He then falls in love with one of his client, Eiko. The two of them get married and were happy until Eiko dies of a car crash. Eiko was in a habit of buying clothes all the time and both of them knew that it was a serious concern for her. When she dies, Tony is left with to deal with the hundreds of clothes lying in her closet. Initially Tony arranges for an assistant who agreed to wear the clothes but he ends up selling them all for a low price. two years after that, his father dies and he is left with all the old jazz records of his father. He sells them.

It was just a sad story. One heartbreak after the other. Tony is haunted by solitude which which was instilled inside him from the very beginning. The quick death of his wife didn’t help his case. It was just human loneliness and solitude intertwined.

I think I am done with Murakami for a while now.

I read “The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S.Eliot and you can check it out if you haven’t read it yet. It is another sad and magnificent literary piece. It is something that I would like to read towards the end of the world, facing nothing but the lonely sea.

Here’s a glance at the first few lines:

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

 

 

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