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This is the first proper novel I read, and for that reason I wanted to get to the end. It was also my first experience with Murakami's fiction (though I do own IQ84, I never got very far).
From a language learning perspective, it's really quite nice. For the most part the writing uses common, everyday vocabulary, fairly simple grammar, and a very plain style overall. Apparently Murakami includes magical realism in his work, but this one wasn't confusing at all. I've read almost entirely manga up until this point, so I was a little intimidated at the prospect of a novel 10 levels above what I usually read, but it with the help of Yomichan it was was an extremely smooth transition. On that note I would recommend it, but I unfortunately also think the book itself is one of the most banal, tedious, and embarrassing novels I've read in full.
Maybe there's some kind of magical touch, some subtle elegance that I just wasn't able to grasp at my level of Japanese, but I found the writing style incredibly mundane. Scenes are described in the most straightforward of terms and with endless repetition (a plus for a language learner) -- what little figurative language there is is quickly diluted by tedious explanations of whatever unimaginative metaphor just appeared in the last sentence. There's also a habit of constantly using loanwords to describe clothes, cars, and all sorts of things that I just found ugly and irritating, though I guess some people might find the beauty in a whole paragraph of sentences like：
As for the story, well, I usually won't criticize a novel for this, but given the compete lack of an interesting style, I feel like obliged to mention that despite the fact that this book traces four decades of our narrator's life, it's hard to think of *anything *interesting that happens. If you want a depiction of suburban ennui, well I suppose you'll find it here as we navigate the mid-life crisis of a self-centered perpetual adolescent, but it's hard to truly recommend it when it seems the worldview of the author is only about 10% self-aware than the narrator's. There's also Murakami's misogyny, which, I could maybe look past in theory, but in my opinion he would have to be twice as talented to get away with half as much as he does here. The book only stops being boring long enough to make your skin crawl. The worst part is it's not the most explicit kind, either. It's a creeping, insidious misogyny that seems to infect the narration and seeps into every female character's dialogue.
I understand that Murakami is a much celebrated author, and maybe there's something interesting going on in his more acclaimed works. But this one goes beyond disappointing and ends up downright embarrassing. There's something to be said for finding the beauty in the mundane, and a lot of my favorite Japanese art excels at this. Personally though, I'm pretty content to never visit Murakami's "magical" world of BMWs, classical music, and mysterious women ever again.