Haruki Murakami’s Journey: A Friend’s View Through Five Stages

Haruki Murakami:

When I look back on the path I’ve walked, it never feels like a straight road. More like a series of quiet turns—some taken on purpose, others by accident. I never intended to become a novelist. I ran a jazz bar. I listened to records. One day, at a baseball game, something opened up inside me and said, “Write.” So I did.

But the truth is, I never walked that road alone.

There was always someone beside me. Not someone loud or insistent, but someone steady. Someone who never asked too many questions, but always knew when to speak—and when not to. That kind of friend is rare. And in a life filled with words, sometimes their silence spoke the most.

Through five stages of my life—from jazz bars in Tokyo to long runs in Hawaii, from writing surreal fiction to recording the testimonies of trauma—I felt that presence. Not in the front row, but just beyond the spotlight. Watching. Trusting me to find my own way.

This story, if it’s a story at all, isn’t just about me. It’s about the quiet companionship that helped me keep going when I wasn’t sure why I started. And maybe that’s the only kind of story worth telling.

(Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event.) 

The Jazz Bar Dreamer

Tokyo, late 60s to early 70s – before the first word was ever published

Scene 1: Late Night Vinyl

Location: Backroom of Peter Cat jazz bar, Tokyo. Smoke coils lazily under dim orange light. A Miles Davis record spins, the trumpet weaving through shadows like a whisper.

Haruki Murakami:
"Listen to that… how he just drifts off between notes. Like he’s letting the silence speak."

You:
"You always say that. You trust silence more than most writers trust words."

Haruki Murakami:
"I’m not a writer."

You:
"Not yet."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He chuckles, pouring more whiskey into both cups.)
"Maybe in another life. For now, I make sure the beer’s cold and the sound system doesn’t blow a fuse."

You:
"But in your head, aren’t there entire stories playing? Like this music—but with people instead of saxophones?"

Haruki Murakami: 
(He pauses, looking at the vinyl spin.)
"Sometimes… yeah. A girl who vanishes. A cat that talks. A man who just walks out one day and doesn’t come back for twenty years."

You:
"Sounds like a novel to me."

Scene 2: Cleaning Ashtrays at Dawn

Location: Empty jazz bar, 5:30 AM. The city outside is gray and groggy. You both move slowly, clearing ashtrays and glasses as sunlight peeks through narrow windows.

Haruki Murakami:
"I dreamed I was running through a tunnel. Just running and running. No light at the end."

You:
"And?"

Haruki Murakami:
"I felt completely free."

You:
"That sounds like writing."

Haruki Murakami: 
(He wipes down the bar with a towel, then stops, frowning at his own hands.)
"You ever wonder if we’re doing what we’re meant to?"

You:
"All the time."

Haruki Murakami:
"Maybe I missed my real path."

You:
"Maybe you haven’t found it yet. Or maybe it’s waiting for you after one more record, one more drink, one more night like this."

Scene 3: Rainy Tokyo Walk

Location: Backstreets of Kokubunji, umbrellas swaying in the rain. Neon signs shimmer on wet pavement. You walk side by side, shoes splashing in puddles.

Haruki Murakami:
"I had this dream last night. I was following a cat into a narrow alley. At the end of it, there was a well. Deep, quiet. I think I went inside."

You:
"Are you telling me your subconscious just handed you your first novel?"

Haruki Murakami:  
(He grins.)
"Don’t tease. But maybe I should write it down… for fun."

You:
"You’ve got the rhythm of a story in your voice. Even when you’re talking nonsense."

Haruki Murakami:
"If I ever do write something, promise me one thing."

You:
"Name it?"

Haruki Murakami:
"Don’t let me stop halfway."

Scene 4: Jazz and Solitude

Location: The bar, late evening. Only one customer left, slouched over the counter. You and Haruki lean in the doorway, watching snow fall in silent spirals.

Haruki Murakami:
"This place feels like a secret world sometimes. Like it doesn’t exist in real time."

You:
"That’s why people love it. It’s a pause button."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He crosses his arms.)
"I wonder if I could write stories that feel like that. A pause. A breath between the chaos."

You:
"You already live that kind of story. Just need to put it on paper."

Haruki Murakami:
"I’d have to wake up earlier. Writers don’t sleep till noon."

You:
"You don’t sleep at all. You just dream out loud."

Scene 5: Decision Under the Blue Light

Location: A tiny kitchen above the bar. Fluorescent blue light hums overhead. It’s 2AM. Haruki’s washing rice. You sip instant coffee at the table.

Haruki Murakami:
"You know, I went to a baseball game yesterday. Jingu Stadium."

You:
"Yeah?"

Haruki Murakami:
"In the middle of it, as the batter hit a double, this thought came into my head like thunder: ‘I could write a novel.’ Just like that."

You:
"That’s it? Just a swing and an epiphany?"

Haruki Murakami:
"Yeah. Like the sky opened and dropped it into my brain. I came home and started scribbling. Just a few lines."

You:
"And?"

Haruki Murakami:
"I didn’t hate them."

You:  
(You smile, rising to help with the rice.)
"Then this is the start. You’re going to write something strange and quiet and unforgettable. Just like you."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He laughs softly.)
"Maybe one day, when I’m old and strange, someone will ask me, ‘How did it all begin?’ And I’ll say, ‘With jazz, a cat, and a baseball game.’"

The Sudden Novelist

Tokyo, 1979–early 80s – the leap from bar owner to published writer

Scene 1: The Baseball Revelation

Location: Rooftop balcony, twilight. A soft wind carries the distant cheers from Jingu Stadium. Haruki leans against the railing, a pencil behind his ear. You're sitting on a milk crate, nursing a warm beer.

Haruki Murakami:
"It hit me like a curveball. Bottom of the inning, crack of the bat—and suddenly I knew."

You:
"Knew what?"

Haruki Murakami:
"That I could write a novel. Just like that. Not because I trained. Not because I studied. Just… because I felt it."

You:
"Sounds like destiny, or madness. Probably both."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He smiles.)
"Maybe. But I went home and wrote the first sentence of Hear the Wind Sing that night. In English, no less."

You:
"Why English?"

Haruki Murakami:
"To keep it simple. I couldn’t get too poetic. No hiding behind fancy words."

You:
"You didn’t need fancy. You had rhythm."

Scene 2: The Clatter of the Olivetti

Location: Small Tokyo apartment. A desk jammed into a corner, next to a window framing gray rooftops. The Olivetti typewriter clacks like distant rain. Haruki sits cross-legged on the tatami, surrounded by drafts. You bring him tea.

You:
"You haven’t left this spot in hours. The rice cooker’s crying from neglect."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He rubs his temples.)
"I’m not even sure this counts as a novel. It’s just a strange breeze that won’t stop blowing through me."

You:
"Then write with the breeze. Let it take you wherever it wants."

Haruki Murakami:
"I don’t know how to plot. Or build characters like real novelists do."

You:
"And yet, there’s something living in these pages. It’s like… it breathes differently."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He exhales.)
"I just want it to feel honest."

You:
"Then you're already doing more than most writers ever manage."

Scene 3: Submission Doubts

Location: A soba shop near Meidaimae. Rain taps gently on the paper screen beside your table. Haruki stirs his noodles without eating. A brown envelope rests between you—manuscript inside.

Haruki Murakami:
"What if they laugh? What if they think it’s juvenile or… worse, forgettable?"

You:
"Then you write the next one. And the next. Until they can’t forget."

Haruki Murakami:
"I wrote this because I wanted to know what my inner world sounded like. But now I’m terrified of someone else hearing it."

You:
"That’s exactly why you must send it. It’s your world. But someone else out there is waiting for it. They just don’t know yet."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He lifts the envelope hesitantly.)
"Okay. You’re mailing it for me, though."

You:
"Deal. But I’m stealing your tempura."

Scene 4: The Call

Location: Jazz bar basement, cluttered with records. You and Haruki are organizing boxes when the phone rings. He picks up. His face changes. He lowers the receiver slowly.

Haruki Murakami:
"I won."

You:
"What?"

Haruki Murakami:
"The Gunzo Prize. They’re publishing it."

You:  
(You drop a stack of records.)
"You’re serious?"

Haruki Murakami:
"They called me a fresh voice. Said it reminded them of something new and something ancient at once. I don’t even know what that means."

You:
"It means you cracked open your own little world—and they saw light inside."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He sits on the floor, stunned.)
"I never planned this."

You:
"And that’s why it’s beautiful."

Scene 5: The Platform

Location: Shinjuku Station, late at night. You stand on the nearly empty platform, waiting for the last train. Haruki holds a copy of the published book in his hands, the cover clean and surreal.

Haruki Murakami:
"You know, I thought I'd feel more excited. But it’s quiet. Like placing a stone into a deep well."

You:
"That’s exactly what your books feel like. A slow descent. A deep echo."

Haruki Murakami:
"I’m not sure I want to be a public person. Interviews. Parties. Expectations. It’s all noise."

You:
"Then just keep writing like no one’s listening. Like you're still on that rooftop hearing jazz bleed into the sky."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He smiles faintly.)
"Yeah. That sounds right."

You:  
(As the train pulls in with a gust of warm air.)
"Come on, novelist. Let’s go home."

The Global Wanderer

Mid-1980s–1995 — From bestseller to seeker of quiet truths, across oceans and inner landscapes

Scene 1: Farewell at Narita Airport

Location: Narita International Airport. Fluorescent lights reflect off polished tiles. The terminal hums with announcements. You stand with Haruki, who carries a single duffel bag and a half-crumpled boarding pass.

Haruki Murakami:
"I thought success would make things clearer. But it’s like my world shrank the moment it expanded."

You:
"You're leaving Japan?"

Haruki Murakami:
"For a while. Maybe Europe. Maybe America. I need silence again. The kind that doesn’t follow you down the street asking for a signature."

You:
"Will you keep writing?"

Haruki Murakami:  
(He adjusts his glasses.)
"I think so. But I have to un-hear the noise first."

You:
"Then find your silence. And write from there."

Scene 2: Greek Island Letters

Location: Your mailbox in Tokyo. A crisp white envelope with foreign stamps. Inside, a handwritten letter in Murakami’s looping script. Attached is a polaroid—he’s sitting under olive trees, the sea glinting behind him.

Haruki Murakami (in the letter):
"The days here are slow. The cats own the alleys. I write in the mornings and swim in the afternoons. Sometimes, I dream of wells again. Dark, silent wells. I think the next story begins with one."

You (in your reply):
"Follow that well. If it’s inside you, it probably knows where it wants to go."

Scene 3: Waikiki Reflections

Location: Waikiki, Hawaii. Early morning. You jog alongside Haruki down Kalākaua Avenue, the ocean to your left, surfboards lined in sand. The sun rises slowly over Diamond Head.

Haruki Murakami:
"This place has rhythm. The ocean. The trade winds. Even the silence here has structure."

You:
"Feels like you’ve softened. In a good way."

Haruki Murakami:
"I needed distance from Japan to remember what my voice sounded like without echo."

You:
"You think you’ll stay?"

Haruki Murakami:
"For a while. I write in the mornings on the lanai. A cat shows up sometimes. Doesn’t say much, though."

You:
"Even the cats here are chill."

Scene 4: Café in Rome

Location: Quiet café near Trastevere, Rome. Terracotta walls. A steaming espresso between you. Haruki slides a notebook across the table—scribbled pages from what will become The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

Haruki Murakami:
"It makes no logical sense. The plot vanishes and reappears like a shadow. A girl with no name. A man looking for his wife in a psychic void."

You:
"Sounds like you're writing what can't be said directly."

Haruki Murakami:
"I don’t want to explain reality. I want to open a door behind it."

You:
"Then don’t explain. Just keep walking through."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He sips his coffee.)
"I think this one will take me a long time."

Scene 5: Return to Tokyo – Re-entry

Location: Shibuya Station, Tokyo. The crowd moves like liquid metal under the neon glare. You and Haruki sit on a bench, both slightly out of place.

Haruki Murakami:
"Everything is familiar, but none of it feels the same."

You:
"You’ve changed."

Haruki Murakami:
"Or I just heard a quieter version of myself and can’t un-hear it now."

You:
"Do you miss the silence of Waikiki?"

Haruki Murakami:
"Sometimes. But now I know how to carry it inside me."

You:
"And the next book?"

Haruki Murakami:
"It’s coming. Bit by bit. Like watching a shadow return to its owner."

The Earthquake Within

1995–2000s – From surrealist to chronicler of pain, stepping into the quiet horror of reality

Scene 1: Staring at the Screen

Location: Haruki’s apartment, early morning. The TV glows pale blue in the dark. Footage from the Kobe Earthquake plays on loop—crushed highways, smoke, stunned silence. Haruki sits cross-legged, unmoving. You enter with two cups of tea.

You:
"Still watching?"

Haruki Murakami:
"Those buildings—I used to walk past them when I was in college."

You:  
(You hand him the tea.)
"Kansai’s part of your roots. This must feel personal."

Haruki Murakami:
"It is. But it’s more than that. It’s like the earth itself gave up words. And now someone has to find them again."

You:
"And you think that's you?"

Haruki Murakami:  
(He nods slowly.)
"I don't want to fictionalize this. I want to listen."

Scene 2: Notes from the Underground

Location: A small café in Tokyo, notebook between you. Murakami flips through pages filled with scribbled notes and transcriptions. You can feel the weight in the air—he’s been interviewing subway attack survivors.

Haruki Murakami:
"They talk like ghosts, but they’re alive. Some can’t go underground anymore. One man told me he smells gas every time he opens his door."

You:
"And you're carrying their stories."

Haruki Murakami:
"I never asked for that responsibility. But they gave it to me anyway."

You:
"Then honor them. With truth. Not interpretation."

Haruki Murakami:
"That’s the plan. No metaphors. No wells. Just their voices. As raw as they came."

Scene 3: The Voice That Shakes

Location: Recording studio, dim-lit. Haruki is prepping to record narration for Underground. You sit behind the glass as he clears his throat. There’s a tremble in his usually even voice.

You (through the mic):
"You okay?"

Haruki Murakami:
"Yeah. It’s just… different. Reading their words instead of mine."

You:
"You’re the vessel this time. That takes a different kind of strength."

Haruki Murakami:
"Some stories carry you. Others you carry like a stone in the chest."

You:
"Then read like it matters. Because it does."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He exhales and begins reading. You watch his shoulders drop as the words flow—quiet, heavy, human.)

Scene 4: Temple Garden Stillness

Location: Kyoto temple, late afternoon. Koi ripple in a shallow pond. The air smells of moss and old wood. You sit beside Haruki on a weathered bench beneath a sakura tree, petals falling like slow rain.

Haruki Murakami:
"Writing fiction used to feel like slipping into a dream. This project… it feels like stepping into someone’s wound."

You:
"And yet you did it."

Haruki Murakami:
"I had to. Not because I wanted to, but because silence would’ve been worse."

You:
"You know what surprises me? You didn’t lose your voice. You just tuned it differently."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He looks up at the branches.)
"Maybe I had to grow into this part of it."

Scene 5: The Tokyo Station Crossing

Location: Tokyo Station. Late at night. You and Haruki stand by the crossing, watching the quiet flow of commuters. The streetlights reflect off polished shoes and tired eyes. A quiet moment in a city always moving.

You:
"Do you think this changed you?"

Haruki Murakami:
"Completely. I used to think I could retreat forever—write about wells and cats and not touch the real world."

You:
"But now?"

Haruki Murakami:
"Now I know: the real world leaks in. Whether I write it or not. So I might as well listen to it."

You:
"And after Underground?"

Haruki Murakami:
"I’ll go back to fiction. But not the same fiction. Something has cracked open inside."

You:
"And what’s coming through?"

Haruki Murakami:  
(He gazes at the tide of people crossing the street.)
"Compassion. Maybe that’s the only thing worth writing anymore."

The Reflective Elder

2010s–Present – From seeker to teacher, from writer to observer of life’s quiet beauty

Scene 1: Morning Jog Along the River

Location: Sumida River, Tokyo. The sun is rising behind Tokyo Skytree. You jog side-by-side, the rhythmic sound of your footsteps echoing in the quiet. Haruki runs at a steady pace, a slight breeze tugging at his jacket.

Haruki Murakami:
"You ever wonder why the world feels slower when you get older? It’s like I’m running, but everything’s already ahead of me."

You:
"It’s not that it’s slower. You’re just more aware of the distance you’ve traveled."

Haruki Murakami:
"I used to think the speed was the point. But now, I find myself chasing the same view, over and over. The river, the birds."

You:
"Maybe it’s not the chase anymore. Maybe it’s the quiet knowing."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He nods.)
"That’s what I’m starting to understand. The joy is in the moment. Not the finish line."

Scene 2: Revisiting Old Notes

Location: Haruki’s apartment. The light is soft and golden in the late afternoon. The shelves are lined with well-worn books and notebooks filled with years of ideas. He pulls out an old, yellowed notebook from a drawer.

Haruki Murakami:
"Look at this. Hear the Wind Sing… I can barely remember writing it. I was so naive back then. So hungry."

You:
"But that hunger gave you something. Gave us something. Those early books—they still echo, even now."

Haruki Murakami:
"I never expected this… the way people hold onto my words. It’s strange. I feel like a keeper of memories I didn’t even know I had."

You:
"Maybe you were meant to carry them, even if you didn’t know it at the time."

Haruki Murakami:
"Maybe. But now I look at these pages, and I think… maybe the stories don’t belong to me anymore. They belong to everyone who reads them."

Scene 3: Piano and Whiskey Night

Location: Haruki’s living room. A jazz piano record plays softly. The glass of whiskey in his hand is half-empty. The room is dim, cozy. The air smells like aged wood and book dust.

Haruki Murakami:
"You ever feel like all the words are gone? Like they’ve been written by someone else, in another time?"

You:
"I think that happens when you’ve said what you needed to say. But you’re not done yet. Maybe that’s why the silence is getting louder."

Haruki Murakami:  
(Sighing deeply.)
"I can hear it, you know. The silence, the world behind the words. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s waiting for me to join it."

You:
"It’s always been there. You’ve always known it."

Haruki Murakami:
"And yet, here I am, still trying to keep up with the noise, even now."

You:
"Maybe it’s not about keeping up. Maybe it’s about letting the silence catch up to you."

Scene 4: Fan Letters from a High School

Location: Haruki’s kitchen table. He reads through a stack of letters, the paper wrinkled from being folded and unfolded countless times. One letter stands out—a note from a high school student, thanking him for saving their life.

Haruki Murakami:
"Listen to this. Your book helped me get through a time when I felt completely alone. I read it every night."

You:
"Doesn’t that make it all worth it?"

Haruki Murakami:  
(He runs his fingers over the letter.)
"It’s strange. I never thought I was writing to save anyone. I just wrote to stay alive myself."

You:
"Maybe that’s why it connects. You wrote what it means to be human."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He pauses, looking out the window.)
"And now, it seems that’s enough. I never wanted to be a ‘great writer.’ But maybe that’s what people need—someone who doesn’t pretend to have all the answers."

Scene 5: Twilight on the Balcony

Location: Haruki’s balcony. The city stretches out below, a vast sea of lights. The evening sky is a soft purple, the air cool and calming. Haruki leans on the railing, looking out at the horizon.

Haruki Murakami:
"You know, if I go tomorrow, I’ll go thankful. But if I stay, I hope I still have something left to write."

You:
"You’ve already given so much. What’s left will come when it’s meant to."

Haruki Murakami:
"Maybe. But it doesn’t stop me from wondering. If there’s one more story, one more thought that hasn’t been told."

You:
"There’s always something more. But it’ll come on its own time, like it always has."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He smiles faintly.)
"Yeah. Maybe that’s the most honest way to live. Waiting for the story to find you, instead of chasing it."

You:
"And until then, you’ve already said it all. We’ve heard your world, and it’s beautiful."

Haruki Murakami:  
(He looks at the fading sky.)
"Then I guess I’ll rest. For now."

Final Reflection by Haruki Murakami

I don’t believe in endings. Not really. Books end. Lives end. But something always keeps moving beneath the surface, like water under ice.

When I write, I don’t aim to teach or explain. I just try to observe—gently, patiently—what the world is trying to say. That’s why I run. That’s why I listen to jazz. That’s why I write about cats that vanish and wells that echo. It’s not logic—it’s rhythm.

And through all the years, through every draft and every city I’ve called home, there was someone who walked beside me. Not to interpret the silence, but to share it. To sit beside me on the quiet days. To hold space when the words wouldn’t come.

That kind of friendship—quiet, enduring, unseen—is not so different from writing itself. It doesn’t demand much. But it gives everything.

If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s this: The people who matter most aren’t the ones who cheer the loudest. They’re the ones still walking with you when the music fades and the sentence ends. And if I’ve written anything of value in this life, it’s because someone like that was always just a few steps away.

Short Bios:

Haruki Murakami

A world-renowned Japanese novelist known for his surreal storytelling, jazz-infused prose, and quietly complex characters. Murakami first gained attention with Hear the Wind Sing and rose to international acclaim with novels like Norwegian Wood, Kafka on the Shore, and The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. His stories blend the mundane and metaphysical, and he often explores themes of solitude, memory, music, and the subconscious.

You (the Best Friend)

An imagined lifelong friend of Haruki Murakami, you walk with him through every key stage of his life—not as a public figure, but as a quiet, constant presence. You don’t offer critique or praise. You offer space. A listener. A running partner. A shoulder when needed. In a world that often misunderstood Haruki’s inward rhythm, you simply understood. And that made all the difference.