商品説明
真夜中から夜明けについての時間帯、東京を舞台に出会いを描いた短くてしゃれた小説。どこをとっても村上春樹の傑作『The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle』（邦題『ねじまき鳥クロニクル』）や『Kafka on the Shore』（邦題『海辺のカフカ』）にひけをとらない吸引力がある。 軸となるのは2人の姉妹、眠り続けるファッション・モデルのエリと、平凡なデニーズで1人、読書をしている若い学生のマリだ。マリはすぐに自分とはかけ離れた世界に暮らす人々の元へ導かれることになる。以前に会ったことがあると主張するジャズ・トロンボーン奏者、そしてラブホテルのたくましい女経営者と従業員、ビジネスマンにひどい暴力を振るわれた中国人売春婦。この“夜の住民たち”はそれぞれの秘密に悩まされており、異なる環境でそれぞれ孤独に過ごすよりも、みなで集まり心強さを感じる必要がある。じきにエリが眠り続ける謎は、犯罪行為で堕落したビジネスマンにつながっており、彼はエリを救うかあるいは破滅させるかだと明らかになっていく。
『After Dark』は思わず引きこまれる人間ドラマからメタファーの多い思考へと移行し、時間と空間そして記憶と予想を取り込み、シームレスな人間の摂理への探索、そして自己表現と感情移入、さらには観察力の力と思いやりや愛の限界との相互作用を織りなしていく。村上らしいユーモア、心理学的な洞察、精神と倫理の描写が本書では見事な調和を見せて洗練されたものとなっている。
レビュー
"In After Dark, night seems to be where Murakami was headed all along, a place where the ordinary acts that he has written of so evocatively stand out against the velvety bas relief of the Tokyo night, a backdrop that gives these acts both danger and wonder . . . He has a natural curiosity about people, a belief that they contain wonders, perhaps none so great as the capacity for human connection."
--Charles Taylor, Newsday
"After Dark [is] hypnotically eerie, sometimes even funny, but most of all, it's [a book] that keeps ratcheting up the suspense . . . Through his short, enigmatic chapters, Murakami--aided by Jay Rubin's perfectly pitched English--manages to convey something of the interconnectedness of the city and its constant air of expectancy and danger."
--Michael Dirda, The Washington Post Book World
"The world [Murakami] creates--of fast-food restaurants and strange hotels, people dying (almost literally) to make connections but able to do so only in fits and starts--continues to be one of the most intoxicating around. His knack for making the everyday exotic, and the elusive tangible, is as sharp as in his 'bigger' works, [just as] the middle ground he stakes can still make the earth move."
--Ed Siegel, The Boston Phoenix
"After Dark is a gripping dream [in which] Murakami reveals the darkness in which his characters' amorphous fears flourish. But so too does their poignant and brave willingness to rebirth themselves every day . . . In Murakami's hands, hope is nothing more nor less than a deep, cleansing breath."
--Julie Wittes Schlack, The Boston Globe
"[Murakami's] flair for making dialogue bloom from inhospitable soil, the way he can magic a memorable encounter out of thin air, and his conviction that there is salvation to be found in the company of strangers--all these familiar Murakami traits animate the pages of the novel and give it the writer's special stamp. Yet in After Dark this signature style seems to have found itself a fresher groove . . . It almost asks to be devoured by insomniacs in a single all-night sitting."
--Margaret Hillenbrand, Financial Times
"After Dark is a streamlined, hushed ensemble piece built on the notion that very late at night, after the lamps of logic have been snuffed and rationality has shut its eyes, life on earth becomes boundariless and blurred . . . Standing above the common gloom, Murakami detects phosphorescence everywhere, but chiefly in the auras around people, which glow brightest at night and when combined."
--Walter Kirn, New York Times Book Review
"This is a sparely written book, floating on its metaphors, a delicate and simple story, beautifully told."
--Joanna Rose, The Oregonian
"After Dark [is] one of the author's most fully realized short fictions . . . He's drilling down to the essential mysteries of existence."
--Laura Miller, Salon
“What you’ll love: The book’s spare yet eerily atmospheric scenes will fester under your skin, poking at your equilibrium long after you’ve finished reading.”
–Alexis Burling, The Washington Post
“There’s a dreamlike quality to Haruki Murakami’s mesmerizing new novel, [where] amid the alienation are flickers of hopefulness springing from seemingly random, serendipitous human interactions and connections . . . Like a latter-day Walker Percy or Albert Camus, Murakami raises questions about perception and existence [and] captures the palpable loneliness and essential unfathomability at the heart of modern life.”
–Heller McAlpin, The Christian Science Monitor
“This strange, mesmerizing, spell-binding, voyeuristic novel is impossible to put down . . . The reader prowls among [its characters], uneasy about such a relentless perspective, yet unable to relinquish it. In such a way does Murakami skillfully and seamlessly strip the human condition of its disguises and ponder the impenetrable mysteries of the human heart.”
–Sam Coale, The Providence Journal
“This mesmerizing tale [is] a metaphysical mystery that’s surprisingly linear in structure and almost tidy for [Murakami’s] oeuvre . . . After Dark deftly explores existentialist notions of purpose, control, and identity.”
–Corrie Pikul, Elle
“Unlike many of Murakami’s other characters, After Dark’s two heroes aren’t acutely passive slackers. Night may darken their daily duties, but it can’t blacken the ever-shifting shutter speeds of Murakami’s cockeyed Kodak . . . His unusual in-camera narration permits even his minor misfits to shine while focusing on how humanity overlooks the spectral figures toiling before dawn . . . It is straight-ahead jazz with a quiet grace.”
–Edward Champion, The Los Angeles Times Book Review
“After Dark is a potent and disturbing work, one that is all the more effective for the familiar aspects it presents. He reminds us that the essence of horror in the post-modern narrative is not some gothic extravagance, but the realities that await us outside our doorstep.”
–-Ted Gioia, The Boston Globe
“The best thing about After Dark is its cohesive atmosphere, one of delay and suspense, as time slows down and everybody gets the creeps. If Mr. Murakami were to attempt a 24-hour epic, his would emphasize the night as James James Joyce emphasized the day.”
–Benjamin Lytal, The New York Sun
"Luminous . . . After Dark brings characters together, penetrating their solitude. Here, instead of mining loneliness, the author builds a sense of interweaving destinies and blossoming relationships [in] a tightly controlled narrative, carefully constructed in both time and place . . . We stay alert to exact detail on each page, within every frame. The result is palpable and enthralling . . . Like most of the innovative writer's work, it is bound to linger in the mind for years."
--Lee Makela, The Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Strange, confusing, and incredible.”
--Esquire
“Darkly entertaining.”
–Publishers Weekly
"After Dark is a bittersweet novel that will satisfy the most demanding literary taste. It is a sort of neo-noir flick set in half-empty diners, dark streets and hotel rooms straight out of the paintings of Edward Hopper. It reminds us that while great pleasures make this life worth living, great danger threatens the fictitious stability of our lives . . . that the world is broad, that myths are universal--and that while we sleep, the world out there is moving in mysterious and unpredictable ways."
--Juvenal Acosta, The San Francisco Chronicle
"Disarmingly intimate, almost tactile . . . The narrative flows like a jazz ballad [in which] each character is unique in his or her loneliness, yet each possesses a capacity for momentary empathy that is both sweet and heartbreaking. Murakami's genius, on both large and small canvases, is to create worlds both utterly alien and disconcertingly familiar."
--Bill Ott, Booklist
"A seductive and gratifying intellectual and romantic adventure."
--Kirkus, starred review
抜粋
Chapter One: 11:56 p.m.
Eyes mark the shape of the city.
Through the eyes of a high-flying night bird, we take in the scene from midair. In our broad sweep, the city looks like a single gigantic creature—or more like a single collective entity created by many intertwining organisms. Countless arteries stretch to the ends of its elusive body, circulating a continuous supply of fresh blood cells, sending out new data and collecting the old, sending out new consumables and collecting the old, sending out new contradictions and collecting the old. To the rhythm of its pulsing, all parts of the body flicker and flare up and squirm. Midnight is approaching, and while the peak of activity has passed, the basal metabolism that maintains life continues undiminished, producing the basso continuo of the city’s moan, a monotonous sound that neither rises nor falls but is pregnant with foreboding.
Our line of sight chooses an area of concentrated brightness and, focusing there, silently descends to it—a sea of neon colors. They call this place an “amusement district.” The giant digital screens fastened to the sides of buildings fall silent as midnight approaches, but loudspeakers on storefronts keep pumping out exaggerated hip-hop bass lines. A large game center crammed with young people; wild electronic sounds; a group of college students spilling out from a bar; teenage girls with brilliant bleached hair, healthy legs thrusting out from micromini skirts; dark-suited men racing across diagonal crosswalks for the last trains to the suburbs. Even at this hour, the karaoke club pitchmen keep shouting for customers. A flashy black station wagon drifts down the street as if taking stock of the district through its black-tinted windows. The car looks like a deep-sea creature with specialized skin and organs. Two young policemen patrol the street with tense expressions, but no one seems to notice them. The district plays by its own rules at a time like this. The season is late autumn. No wind is blowing, but the air carries a chill. The date is just about to change.
We are inside a Denny’s.
Unremarkable but adequate lighting; expressionless decor and dinnerware; floor plan designed to the last detail by management engineers; innocuous background music at low volume; staff meticulously trained to deal with customers by the book: “Welcome to Denny’s.” Everything about the restaurant is anonymous and interchangeable. And almost every seat is filled.
After a quick survey of the interior, our eyes come to rest on a girl sitting by the front window. Why her? Why not someone else? Hard to say. But, for some reason, she attracts our attention—very naturally. She sits at a four-person table, reading a book. Hooded gray parka, blue jeans, yellow sneakers faded from repeated washing. On the back of the chair next to her hangs a varsity jacket. This, too, is far from new. She is probably college freshman age, though an air of high school still clings to her. Hair black, short, and straight. Little makeup, no jewelry. Small, slender face. Black-rimmed glasses. Every now and then, an earnest wrinkle forms between her brows.
She reads with great concentration. Her eyes rarely move from the pages of her book—a thick hardback. A bookstore wrapper hides the title from us. Judging from her intent expression, the book might contain challenging subject matter. Far from skimming, she seems to be biting off and chewing it one line at a time.
On her table is a coffee cup. And an ashtray. Next to the ashtray, a navy blue baseball cap with a Boston Red Sox “B.” It might be a little too large for her head. A brown leather shoulder bag rests on the seat next to her. It bulges as if its contents had been thrown in on the spur of the moment. She reaches out at regular intervals and brings the coffee cup to her mouth, but she doesn’t appear to be enjoying the flavor. She drinks because she has a cup of coffee in front of her: that is her role as a customer. At odd moments, she puts a cigarette between her lips and lights it with a plastic lighter. She narrows her eyes, releases an easy puff of smoke into the air, puts the cigarette into the ashtray, and then, as if to soothe an approaching headache, she strokes her temples with her fingertips.
The music playing at low volume is “Go Away Little Girl” by Percy Faith and His Orchestra. No one is listening, of course. Many different kinds of people are taking meals and drinking coffee in this late-night Denny’s, but she is the only female there alone. She raises her face from her book now and then to glance at her watch, but she seems dissatisfied with the slow passage of time. Not that she appears to be waiting for anyone: she doesn’t look around the restaurant or train her eyes on the front door. She just keeps reading her book, lighting an occasional cigarette, mechanically tipping back her coffee cup, and hoping for the time to pass a little faster. Needless to say, dawn will not be here for hours.
She breaks off her reading and looks outside. From this second-story window she can look down on the busy street. Even at a time like this, the street is bright enough and filled with people coming and going—people with places to go and people with no place to go; people with a purpose and people with no purpose; people trying to hold time back and people trying to urge it forward. After a long, steady look at this jumbled street scene, she holds her breath for a moment and turns her eyes once again toward her book. She reaches for her coffee cup. Puffed no more than two or three times, her cigarette turns into a perfectly formed column of ash in the ashtray.
The electric door slides open and a lanky young man walks in. Short black leather coat, wrinkled olive-green chinos, brown work boots. Hair fairly long and tangled in places. Perhaps he has had no chance to wash it in some days. Perhaps he has just crawled out of the underbrush somewhere. Or perhaps he just finds it more natural and comfortable to have messy hair. His thinness makes him look less elegant than malnourished. A big black instrument case hangs from his shoulder. Wind instrument. He also holds a dirty tote bag at his side. It seems to be stuffed with sheet music and other assorted things. His right cheek bears an eye-catching scar. It is short and deep, as if the flesh has been gouged out by something sharp. Nothing else about him stands out. He is a very ordinary young man with the air of a nice—but not very clever—stray mutt.
The waitress on hostess duty shows him to a seat at the back of the restaurant. He passes the table of the girl with the book. A few steps beyond it, he comes to a halt as if a thought has struck him. He begins moving slowly backward as in a rewinding film, stopping at her table. He cocks his head and studies her face. He is trying to remember something, and much time goes by until he gets it. He seems like the type for whom everything takes time.
The girl senses his presence and raises her face from her book. She narrows her eyes and looks at the young man standing there. He is so tall, she seems to be looking far overhead. Their eyes meet. The young man smiles. His smile is meant to show he means no harm.
Sorry if I’ve got the wrong person,” he says, “but aren’t you Eri Asai’s little sister?”
She does not answer. She looks at him with eyes that could be looking at an overgrown bush in the corner of a garden.
“We met once,” he continues. “Your name is . . . Yuri . . . sort of like your sister Eri’s except the first syllable.”
Keeping a cautious gaze fixed on him, she executes a concise factual correction: “Mari.”
He raises his index finger and says, “That’s it! Mari. Eri and Mari. Different first syllables. You don’t remember me, do you?”
Mari inclines her head slightly. This could mean either yes or no. She takes off her glasses and sets them down beside her coffee cup.
The waitress retraces her steps and asks, “Are you together?”
“Uh-huh,” he answers. “We are.”
She sets his menu on the table. He takes the seat across from Mari and puts his case on the seat next to his. A moment later he thinks to ask Mari, “Mind if I sit here a while? I’ll get out as soon as I’m finished eating. I have to meet somebody.”
Mari gives him a slight frown. “Aren’t you supposed to say that before you sit down?”
He thinks about the meaning of her words. “That I have to meet somebody?”
“No . . . ,” Mari says.
“Oh, you mean as a matter of politeness.”
“Uh-huh.”
He nods. “You’re right. I should have asked if it’s okay to sit at your table. I’m sorry. But the place is crowded, and I won’t bother you for long. Do you mind?”
Mari gives her shoulders a little shrug that seems to mean “As you wish.” He opens his menu and studies it.
“Are you through eating?” he asks.
“I’m not hungry.”
With a scowl, he scans the menu, snaps it shut, and lays it on the table. “I really don’t have to open the menu,” he says. “I’m just faking it.”
Mari doesn’t say anything.
“I don’t eat anything but chicken salad here. Ever. If you ask me, the only thing worth eating at Denny’s is the chicken salad. I’ve had just about everything on the menu. Have you ever tried their chicken salad?”
Mari shakes her head.
“It’s not bad. Chicken salad and crispy toast. That’s all I ever eat at Denny’s.”
“So why do you even bother looking at the menu?”
He pulls at the wrinkles in the corner o...
著者について
Haruki Murakamiwas born in Kyoto in 1949 and now lives near Tokyo. His work has been translated into thirty-eight languages. The most recent of his many honors is the Franz Kafka Prize.
