South of the Border, West of the Sun-A Conflicted Experience

 

South of the Border, West of the Sun was not at all one of my favorites. After reading so many glowing reviews, I must confess I was genuinely disappointed. 

That said, I didn’t stop reading. Not even once. And that, in itself, says a lot about Haruki Murakami as a writer.

I didn’t enjoy the book until very close to the end, but Murakami’s prose kept pulling me forward. He has that rare ability to make you continue reading even when you feel, deep down, that the story might be going nowhere.

Beautiful Writing, Distant Characters

Murakami writes beautifully—there’s no denying that. His sentences flow effortlessly, scenes are carefully composed, and everything feels precise and intentional.

But I felt no empathy for Hajime, the main character. I couldn’t identify with him, nor did I particularly care about what happened to him. And it’s hard to love a story when you don’t care about the people living inside it.

This emotional distance reminded me, at times, of other minimalist, introspective novels where style outweighs emotional connection. Unlike, say, Norwegian Wood (which many readers find devastatingly intimate), this book keeps its protagonist at arm’s length. Hajime observes his own life more than he truly lives it—and as a reader, I ended up doing the same.

The First Half: A List of Women

The first half of the novel reads like a very well-written list.

A list of women.

A list of relationships.

A list of moments that pass without leaving much of a mark.

There are beautiful scenes scattered throughout, and Murakami knows how to make the ordinary feel elegant. But still, it feels like a catalogue rather than a story. Events happen, but nothing seems to move forward. There’s motion, but no momentum.

Shimamoto: When Things Finally Get Interesting

Around the midpoint, the novel finally sparks.

Shimamoto—Hajime’s first love—returns. She’s mysterious, emotionally distant, full of secrets, and she clearly unsettles him. Suddenly, there’s tension. Something is happening. You want to know more.

In this sense, Shimamoto feels like a classic Murakami figure: elusive, symbolic, almost unreal. She recalls other literary “ghost women” who exist somewhere between memory and desire, much like characters in The Great Gatsby or even Murakami’s own later works.

And it works… at first.

The Frustration of Unanswered Questions

But then it goes nowhere.

What are Shimamoto’s secrets?

What does she want?

What is her true intention?

The novel refuses to answer these questions in a satisfying way. And while ambiguity can be powerful, here it felt more frustrating than meaningful. In the end, Shimamoto becomes just another unresolved event in Hajime’s life—something he doesn’t understand, and neither do we.

This upset me, especially because she was the most intriguing character in the book. Her life, her past, her inner world remain almost completely closed off. One revelation does come, but it is too small and out of context.

The Final Chapter: Meaning Over Pleasure

The last chapter isn’t particularly enjoyable to read—but it does give the book its meaning.

It reframes everything that came before it and offers a quiet lesson. Not a dramatic revelation, not a transformation—just an understanding.

For me, the interpretation is clear: Hajime never truly knows what he wants. That’s why he’s always searching, even when he openly admits that he has everything. There’s a persistent emptiness inside him, and Shimamoto represents a return to a time when life felt simpler and purer.

Inertia, Not Peace

What struck me most is that nothing really changes.

Everything returns to what it was before. There is no rebirth, no awakening—only acceptance. Life is a calm ride, occasionally interrupted by a bump, and then it continues exactly as it was.

Shimamoto’s return is one of those bumps. A painful one. And then it fades.

From my point of view, Hajime doesn’t find peace. He finds inertia. Passivity. And that’s what I disliked the most.

Yet, paradoxically, that’s also where the novel succeeds.

A Quiet Lesson About Life

Life doesn’t always give you what you want.

Sometimes it doesn’t even tell you what you should want.

And often, you’re better off with what you already have—even if it doesn’t fulfill you completely.

It’s a sad lesson, but a truthful one.

Final Thoughts

This was my first Murakami novel. I didn’t love it—but I admired it. I didn’t connect with the story—but I respected the writing.

And because of that, I still want to read more of him. Kafka on the Shore is next on my list. Maybe there, I’ll find the emotional connection that was missing here.

Sometimes a book doesn’t stay with you because you loved it—but because it made you uncomfortable. And South of the Border, West of the Sun definitely did that.