Ryan's post

 

Utopia

 

To continue our conversation from class, the notions of “sickness” and (in my own words) “utopia” form a distinct binary in the text. “Sickness,” that is, the ailments of the various Ami patients, the more physical illnesses of those like Midori’s late father, and the social ills of Tokyo life at large, and “utopia,” this phenomenon’s opposite. Toru navigates a world of suicide, fatal brain tumors, sexual deviancy, middle-school girls snatching cigarettes, filthy dormmates, and day-drunk university students vomiting on the sidewalk; Toru’s Tokyo is grotesque, dirty, and inhospitable, filled with “sick” people destroying themselves, others, or the space around them. He finds it difficult to find comfort out of doors, telling Midori’s father he opts to stay in during “nice weather” to avoid crowds, struggles to really make friends, and cannot replicate love that equals that which he holds for Naoko (who exists in a separate, i.e. the “utopic”, space). Midori’s family is lost to physical illness, Toru and Naoko both have been affected by suicide, and Reiko, who, in a way, can be viewed as having a sort of compromised immune system, is threatened to be swallowed by her debilitating mental condition should she return to the outside world and its stimulus and “germs.” Modern Tokyo is a place of corrupted bodies in motion, weakened or tormented by various burdens and impediments until they are eventually consumed by them, and pass.

What this sickness means is elucidated in what it is not—that is, “utopia.” The opposite pole of Toru’s Tokyo is the Hostel—conveniently named not a place for the treatment of chronic illness (i.e. a “sanatorium”), but a place for lodging. The pocket of quiet that is the Ami Hostel, seated in the mountains and trees, is the foil to Tokyo, with its noise and malaise. Like Eden, the Hostel boasts all necessities (and luxuries) for comfortable human habitation (fresh food via gardens, safety, ample lodgings, enrichment activities like sports and music, very easy access to goods of the outside world, and community), in addition to rare natural amenities on the grounds (exotic birds, for example). There is little sacrifice at all to living this sort of life beyond the disconnect from the external world, the relinquishment of all right to popular consumption, knowledge of current events, and non-utopic relationships. But if leaving it all behind is the key to salvation, is it really that tough of a decision to make? Or is it we who make it hard, trapped by that which poisons us, affected but not moved enough to seek change, coping with that which ruins because we feel too powerless to bend another way? Beyond the political, there is something deeply spiritual about what Murakami presents to us. It’s not quite Buddhist, as the “utopia” offers sensate pleasures and attractions (not austere enough), and though there are elements of Christianity present, as the patients turn to an essentially higher institution for salvation and earn that position through positive action, like contribution to the grounds and therapy (working on themselves to cleanse, confession), there is no sense of a “Christ” or “God” figure at all (not cult enough). What Murakami describes is almost a return to form, a style of living that we have lost in the tides of modernization, globalization, and the boom in quality of life and wealth that came with the turn of the modern era. We could be living fulfilling, communal,, conflict-free lives if we so choose; we could unanimously agree to reject the notions of “phony” (as Midori says) politics, urban and academic demands, and live demonstrably better lives, but this option is reserved for the“sick.”The“healthy,”the ones perpetuating this dichotomy, either do not realize the option to escape exists (like Toru first visiting Ami Hostel), or relegate it only to those they deem in need of it and, thus,“unworthy”of society at large. While the choice to do so, the choice to alter our entire human universe, may seem impossible, it really is as easy as choosing to do so, the drastic change as simple as agreeing to it. If all of society agreed to the decision, all of society would change. The “sickness” that Ami Hostel provides an answer to leaves when the individual is extricated from society. It’s no ttreating anything, per say, as the origin of the illness cannot pass with the patients through the dense cedar forest, but rather offers a space to live and heal—it is a “hostel,” after all. In this sense is Toru sick, too. While he does not come to the conscious conclusion of the necessity of treatment, he ultimately finds comfort in the retreat, and his perspective of the “real” world is warped. The Hostel, then, served its exact purpose for him, allowing him an escape from symptoms he did not realize he was in possession of. The mellowness of the dining hall, the normalcy of the routine, and the opportunities for interactions with nature assuaged a part of himself he did not realize to be tender until returning to Tokyo.