The thing about Magic Realism

It is described as a genre where magical elements invade the seemingly realistic setting of the story. Most famous proponents include Salman Rushdie, Gunter Grass and increasingly in recent times, Haruki Murakami.

But it is not everyone's cup of tea. Not just to write it but to read it even. I immensely enjoyed reading Midnight's Children a while ago and assumed it was right up my ally. However, recently I took to the works of Murakami and found it very difficult to enter the worlds in his later works which were Magic Realism. Instead I picked up his previous more "real" works such as Norwegian Wood and South of the border, west of the sun.

Haruki Murakami is a wonderful writer. And here I must mention the translators as well, Jay Rubin and Philip Gabriel. While I don't know the first thing about Japan or Japanese, I'm sure they are speaking Murakami's words, once you read the words you just know it. The writing is soft for lack of a better word and you feel drawn to it, like it were a handsome woman. Not beautiful mind you but handsome. Yet, his other works present a challenge.

Then I realised being able to read and enjoy Magic Realism is a state of mind. Sure it is so with most things, but more so for something little out of the scope of our normal conditioning. To truly enjoy the experience, one needs to be able to let go, one needs to be in a place where it's easy to accept things. Above all one needs to be free. The resistance mind offers to such genres comes from the resistance to circumstances in life at that point in time. I find myself in a place where I can't accept anything about myself, let alone anything about others. I find it difficult to agree with my feelings, my thoughts and my body even. Masturbating two times, three times a day even, doesn't help. I feel restless every waking minute and probably while I sleep too. There is a deep void in my soul through which every emotion seems to breeze through me, making me feel very empty. I find it easy to take refuge in the drab realness of the world. The world where people fall in love, drift away and struggle desperately to get back, only to find it’s too late. I find it easy to live with real failures than miraculous triumphs. I find it easy to be me than try and be a better person.

I wasn’t always like this and that was when I had read Rushdie’s work and was able to live in it so effortlessly. Maybe somewhere deep down I am someone who believes in miracles. Maybe I long for the day when magic transforms me and I find all my answers. Maybe I one day will be free again.