The Elephant Vanishes: Stories by Haruki Murakami (English) Paperback Book

Description: The Elephant Vanishes by Haruki Murakami Fifteen tales encompass the story of a man obsessed with the disappearance of an elephant from a local zoo and that of a young mother whose sleeplessness provides her with a foretaste of death. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description In the tales that make up The Elephant Vanishes, the imaginative genius that has made Haruki Murakami an international superstar is on full display.In these stories, a man sees his favorite elephant vanish into thin air; a newlywed couple suffers attacks of hunger that drive them to hold up a McDonalds in the middle of the night; and a young woman discovers that she has become irresistible to a little green monster who burrows up through her backyard. By turns haunting and hilarious, in The Elephant Vanishes Murakami crosses the border between separate realities—and comes back bearing remarkable treasures.Includes the story "Barn Burning," which is the basis for the major motion picture Burning. Author Biography Haruki Murakami is a best-selling Japanese writer. His works of fiction and non-fiction have garnered critical acclaim and numerous awards, including the Franz Kafka Prize, the Frank OConnor International Short Story Award and the Jerusalem Prize, among others. Murakamis fiction is humorous and surreal, focusing on themes of alienation and loneliness. He is considered an important figure in postmodern literature. The Guardian praised Murakami as "among the worlds greatest living novelists" for his works and achievements. Murakami is the author of 1Q84, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles, Men Without Women and many more. Review "These are beautifully written stories, often funny, always moving." –Chicago Tribune"Eerie, unsettling. . . . [A] wonderful combination of the bizarre and the mundane." –Village Voice Literary Supplement"Charming, humorous and frequently puzzling . . . The Elephant Vanishes [is] fun to read." –The New York Times"These stories show us Japan as its experienced from the inside. . . . [They] take place in parallel worlds not so much remote from ordinary life as hidden within its surfaces. . . . Even in the slipperiest of Mr. Murakamis stories, pinpoints of detail flash out . . . warm with life, hopelessly–and wonderfully–unstable." –The New York Times Book Review"A stunning writer at work in an era of international literature." –Newsday"Enchanting…intriguing…all of these tales have a wonderfully surreal quality and a hip, witty tone. Mr. Murakami has pulled off a tricky feat, writing stories about people who are bored but never boring. He left me lying awake at night, hungry for more." –Wall Street Journal"The Elephant Vanishes, through [its] bold originality and charming surrealism, should win the author new readers in this country." –Detroit Free Press Review Quote "These are beautifully written stories, often funny, always moving." Chicago Tribune "Eerie, unsettling. . . . [A] wonderful combination of the bizarre and the mundane." Village Voice Literary Supplement "Charming, humorous and frequently puzzling . . .The Elephant Vanishes[is] fun to read." The New York Times "These stories show us Japan as its experienced from the inside. . . . [They] take place in parallel worlds not so much remote from ordinary life as hidden within its surfaces. . . . Even in the slipperiest of Mr. Murakamis stories, pinpoints of detail flash out . . . warm with life, hopelesslyand wonderfullyunstable." The New York Times Book Review "A stunning writer at work in an era of international literature." Newsday "Enchanting…intriguing…all of these tales have a wonderfully surreal quality and a hip, witty tone. Mr. Murakami has pulled off a tricky feat, writing stories about people who are bored but never boring. He left me lying awake at night, hungry for more." Wall Street Journal "The Elephant Vanishes, through [its] bold originality and charming surrealism, should win the author new readers in this country." Detroit Free Press From the Trade Paperback edition. Excerpt from Book from "The Wind-up Bird And Tuesdays Women" Im in the kitchen cooking spaghetti when the woman calls. Another moment until the spaghetti is done; there I am, whistling the prelude to Rossinis La Gazza Ladra along with the FM radio. Perfect spaghetti-cooking music. I hear the telephone ring but tell myself, Ignore it. Let the spaghetti finish cooking. Its almost done, and besides, Claudio Abbado and the London Symphony Orchestra are coming to a crescendo. Still, on second thought, I figure I might as well turn down the flame and head into the living room, cooking chopsticks in hand, to pick up the receiver. It might be a friend, it occurs to me, possibly with word of a new job. "I want ten minutes of your time," comes a womans voice out of the blue. "Excuse me?" I blurt back in surprise. "Hows that again?" "I said, just ten minutes of your time, thats all I want," the woman repeats. I have absolutely no recollection of ever hearing this womans voice before. And I pride myself on a near-perfect ear for voices, so Im sure theres no mistake. This is the voice of a woman I dont know. A soft, low, nondescript voice. "Pardon me, but what number might you have been calling?" I put on my most polite language. "What difference does that make? All I want is ten minutes of your time. Ten minutes to come to an understanding." She cinches the matter quick and neat. "Come to an understanding?" "Of our feelings," says the woman succinctly. I crane my neck back through the door Ive left open to peer into the kitchen. A plume of white steam rising cheerfully from the spaghetti pot, and Abbado is still conducting his Gazza. "If you dont mind, Ive got spaghetti on right now. Its almost done, and itll be ruined if I talk with you for ten minutes. So Im going to hang up, all right?" "Spaghetti?" the woman sputters in disbelief. "Its only ten-thirty in the morning. What are you doing cooking spaghetti at ten-thirty in the morning? Kind of strange, dont you think?" "Strange or not, whats it to you?" I say. "I hardly had any breakfast, so I was getting hungry right about now. And as long as I do the cooking, when and what I eat is my own business, is it not?" "Well, whatever you say. Hang up, then," says the woman in a slow, sappy trickle of a voice. A peculiar voice. The slightest emotional shift and her tone switches to another frequency. "Ill call back later." "Now, wait just one minute," I stammer. "If youre selling something, you can forget right now about calling back. Im unemployed at present and cant afford to buy anything." "I know that, so dont give it another thought," says the woman. "You know that? You know what?" "That youre unemployed, of course. That much I knew. So cook your spaghetti and lets get on with it, okay?" "Hey, who the--" I launch forth, when suddenly the phone goes dead. Cut me off. Too abruptly to have set down the receiver; she must have pressed the button with her finger. Im left hanging. I stare blankly at the receiver in my hand and only then remember the spaghetti. I put down the receiver and return to the kitchen. Turn off the gas, empty the spaghetti into a colander, top it with tomato sauce Ive heated in a saucepan, then eat. Its overcooked, thanks to that pointless telephone call. No matter of life-and-death, nor am I in any mood to fuss over the subtleties of cooking spaghetti--Im too hungry. I simply listen to the radio playing send-off music for two hundred fifty grams of spaghetti as I eagerly dispatch every last strand to my stomach. I wash up plate and pans while boiling a kettle of water, then pour a cup for a tea bag. As I drink my tea, I think about that phone call. So we could come to an understanding? What on earth did that woman mean, calling me up like that? And who on earth was she? The whole thing is a mystery. I cant recall any woman ever telephoning me before without identifying herself, nor do I have the slightest clue what she could have wanted to talk about. What the hell, I tell myself, what do I care about understanding some strange womans feelings , anyway? What possible good could come of it? What matters now is that I find a job. Then I can settle into a new life cycle. Yet even as I return to the sofa to resume the Len Deighton novel I took out of the library, the mere glimpse out of the corner of my eye of the telephone sets my mind going. Just what were those feelings that would take ten minutes to come to an understanding about? I mean, really, ten minutes to come to an understanding of our feelings ? Come to think of it, the woman specified precisely ten minutes right from the start. Seems she was quite certain about that exact amount of time. As if nine minutes would have been too short, eleven minutes maybe too long. Just like for spaghetti al dente. What with these thoughts running through my head, I lose track of the plot of the novel. So I decide to do a few quick exercises, perhaps iron a shirt or two. Whenever things get in a muddle, I always iron shirts. A habit of long standing with me. I divide the shirt-ironing process into twelve steps total: from (1) Collar , to (12) . Absolutely no deviation from that order. One by one, I could off the steps. The ironing doesnt go right if I dont. So there I am, ironing my third shirt, enjoying the hiss of the steam iron and the distinctive smell of hot cotton, checking for wrinkles before hanging up each shirt in the wardrobe. I switch off the iron and put it away in the closet with the ironing board. Im getting thirsty by now and am heading to the kitchen for some water when once more the telephone rings. Here we go again, I think. And for a moment I wonder whether I shouldnt just ignore it and keep on going into the kitchen. But you never know, so I retrace my steps back to the living room and pick up the receiver. If its that woman again, Ill say Im in the middle of ironing and hang up. The call, however, is from my wife. By the clock atop the TV, its eleven-thirty. "Howre things?" she asks. "Fine," I answer, relieved. "Whatve you been up to?" "Ironing." "Is anything wrong?" my wife asks. A slight tension invades her voice. She knows all about my ironing when Im unsettled. "Nothing at all. I just felt like ironing some shirts. No particular reason," I say, switching the receiver from right hand to left as I sit down on a chair. "So, is there something you wanted to tell me about?" "Yes, its about work. Theres the possibility of a job." "Uh-huh," I say. "Can you write poetry?" "Poetry?" I shoot back in surprise. Whats this about poetry? "A magazine company where someone I know works puts out this popular fiction monthly for young girls and theyre looking for someone to select and brush up poetry submissions. Then they want one leadoff poem each month for the section. The works easy and the pays not bad. Of course its only part-time, but if things go well they might string you on for editorial work and--" "Easy?" I say. "Now hold on just one minute. Ive been looking for a position with a law firm. Just where do you come up with this brushing up of poetry?" "Well, didnt you say you used to do some writing in high school?" "In a newspaper. The high-school newspaper. Such-and-such team won the soccer meet; the physics teacher fell down the stairs and had to go to the hospital. Dumb little articles like that I wrote. Not poetry. I cant write poetry." "Not real poetry, just the kind of poems high-school girls might read. They dont even have to be that good. Its not like theyre expecting you to write like Allen Ginsberg. Just whatever you can make do." "I absolutely cannot write make-do poetry," I snap. The very idea. "Hmph," pouts my wife. "This talk of legal work, though. Nothing seems to be materializing, does it?" "Several prospects have come my way already. The final wordll be in sometime this week. If those fall through, maybe then Ill consider it." "Oh? Have it your way, then. But say, what day is it today?" "Tuesday," I tell her after a moments thought. "Okay, then, could you stop by the bank and pay the gas and phone bills?" "Sure thing. I was going out to shop for dinner soon, anyway. I can take care of it at the same time." "And what are we having for dinner?" "Hmm, lets see," I say. "Havent made up my mind yet. I thought Id decide when I go shopping." "You know," my wife starts in with a new tone of voice, "Ive been thinking. Maybe you dont really need to be looking for work." "And why not?" I spit out. Yet more surprises? Is every woman in the world out to shake me up over the phone? "Why dont I have to be looking for work? Another three months and my unemployment compensation is due to run out. No time for idle hands." "My salarys gone up, and my side job is going well, not to mention we have plenty in savings. So if we dont go overboard on luxuries, we should be able to keep food on the table." "And Id do the housework?" "Is that so bad?" "I dont know," I say in all honesty. I really dont know. "Ill have to think it over." "Do think Details ISBN0679750533 Author Haruki Murakami Short Title ELEPHANT VANISHES Pages 336 Language English ISBN-10 0679750533 ISBN-13 9780679750536 Media Book Format Paperback DEWEY 895.635 Year 1994 Imprint Vintage Books Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States Alternative 9789626344064 Residence Oiso, JA Birth 1949 Subtitle Stories DOI 10.1604/9780679750536 AU Release Date 1994-06-28 NZ Release Date 1994-06-28 US Release Date 1994-06-28 UK Release Date 1994-06-28 Publisher Random House USA Inc Series Vintage International Publication Date 1994-06-28 Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:2628856;

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