Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage

Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage

3.9 33
by Haruki Murakami

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The new novel-a book that sold more than a million copies the first week it went on sale in Japan-from the internationally acclaimed author, his first since IQ84.

From the Hardcover edition.  See more details below


The new novel-a book that sold more than a million copies the first week it went on sale in Japan-from the internationally acclaimed author, his first since IQ84.

From the Hardcover edition.

Editorial Reviews

In high school, the happiness and identity of Tsukuru Tazaki focused on his close-knit group of five friends; three boys and two girls with whom he assumed he would always be best friends forever. But when he returned from college in Tokyo, everything had changed; the friendships seemed spoiled and no one would explain why. Years later, a new girlfriend convinces Tsukuru to seek out his old buddies and uncover the truth behind their mysterious rejection. What he learns is something more subtle and complicated than a single secret and reveals much about all human interactions. Now in trade paperback and NOOK Book. (P.S. Haruki Murakami is a major world author. His works have been translated into fifty languages and have sold millions of copies. In fact, this novel sold one million copies in its first week!)

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Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
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Vintage International
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Random House
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From July of his sophomore year in college until the following January, all Tsukuru Tazaki could think about was dying. He turned twenty during this time, but this special watershed—becoming an adult—meant nothing. Taking his own life seemed the most natural solution, and even now he couldn’t say why he hadn’t taken this final step. Crossing that threshold between life and death would have been easier than swallowing down a slick, raw egg.

Perhaps he didn’t commit suicide then because he couldn’t conceive of a method that fit the pure and intense feelings he had toward death. But method was beside the point. If there had been a door within reach that led straight to death, he wouldn’t have hesitated to push it open, without a second thought, as if it were just a part of ordinary life. For better or for worse, though, there was no such door nearby.

I really should have died then, Tsukuru often told himself. Then this world, the one in the here and now, wouldn’t exist. It was a captivating, bewitching thought. The present world wouldn’t exist, and reality would no longer be real. As far as this world was concerned, he would simply no longer exist—just as this world would no longer exist for him.

At the same time, Tsukuru couldn’t fathom why he had reached this point, where he was teetering over the precipice. There was an actual event that had led him to this place—this he knew all too well—but why should death have such a hold over him, enveloping him in its embrace for nearly half a year? Envelop—the word expressed it precisely. Like Jonah in the belly of the whale, Tsukuru had fallen into the bowels of death, one untold day after another, lost in a dark, stagnant void.

It was as if he were sleepwalking through life, as if he had already died but not yet noticed it. When the sun rose, so would Tsukuru—he’d brush his teeth, throw on whatever clothes were at hand, ride the train to college, and take notes in class. Like a person in a storm desperately grasping at a lamppost, he clung to this daily routine. He only spoke to people when necessary, and after school, he would return to his solitary apartment, sit on the floor, lean back against the wall, and ponder death and the failures of his life. Before him lay a huge, dark abyss that ran straight through to the earth’s core. All he could see was a thick cloud of nothingness swirling around him; all he could hear was a profound silence squeezing his eardrums.

When he wasn’t thinking about death, his mind was blank. It wasn’t hard to keep from thinking. He didn’t read any newspapers, didn’t listen to music, and had no sexual desire to speak of. Events occurring in the outside world were, to him, inconsequential. When he grew tired of his room, he wandered aimlessly around the neighborhood or went to the station, where he sat on a bench and watched the trains arriving and departing, over and over again.

He took a shower every morning, shampooed his hair well, and did the laundry twice a week. Cleanliness was another one of his pillars: laundry, bathing, and teeth brushing. He barely noticed what he ate. He had lunch at the college cafeteria, but other than that, he hardly consumed a decent meal. When he felt hungry he stopped by the local supermarket and bought an apple or some vegetables. Sometimes he ate plain bread, washing it down with milk straight from the carton.  When it was time to sleep, he’d gulp down a glass of whiskey as if it were a dose of medicine. Luckily he wasn’t much of a drinker, and a small dose of alcohol was all it took to send him off to sleep. He never dreamed. But even if he had dreamed, even if dreamlike images arose from the edges of his mind, they would have found nowhere to perch on the slippery slopes of his consciousness, instead quickly sliding off, down into the void.
The reason why death had such a hold on Tsukuru Tazaki was clear. One day his four closest friends, the friends he’d known for a long time, announced that they did not want to see him, or talk with him, ever again. It was a sudden, decisive declaration, with no room for compromise. They gave no explanation, not a word, for this harsh pronouncement. And Tsukuru didn’t dare ask.

He’d been friends with the four of them since high school, though when they cut him off, Tsukuru had already left his hometown and was attending college in Tokyo. So being banished didn’t have any immediate negative effects on his daily routine—it wasn’t like there would be awkward moments when he’d run into them on the street. But that was just quibbling. The pain he felt was, if anything, more intense, and weighed down on him even more greatly because of the physical distance. Alienation and loneliness became a cable that stretched hundreds of miles long, pulled to the breaking point by a gigantic winch. And through that taut line, day and night, he received indecipherable messages. Like a gale blowing between trees, those messages varied in strength as they reached him in fragments, stinging his ears.
The five of them had been classmates at a public high school in the suburbs of Nagoya. Three boys, and two girls. During summer vacation of their freshman year, they all did some volunteer work together and became friends. Even after freshman year, when they were in different classes, they remained a close-knit group. The volunteer work that had brought them together had been part of a social studies summer assignment, but even after it ended, they chose to volunteer as a group.

Besides the volunteer work, they went hiking together on holidays, played tennis, swam at the Chita Peninsula, or got together at one of their houses to study for tests. Or else—and this was what they did most often—they just hung out someplace, and talked for hours.  It wasn’t like they showed up with a topic in mind—they just never ran out of things to talk about.

Pure chance had brought them together. There were several volunteer opportunities they could have chosen from, but the one they all chose, independently, was an after-school tutoring program for elementary school kids (most of whom were children who refused to go to school). The program was run by a Catholic church, and of the thirty-five students in their high school class, the five of them were the only ones who selected it. To start, they participated in a three-day summer camp outside Nagoya, and got to be good friends with the children.

Whenever they took a break, the five of them gathered to talk. They got to know each other better, sharing their ideas and opening up about their dreams, as well as their problems. And when the summer camp was over, each one of them felt they were in the right place, where they needed to be, with the perfect companions. A unique sense of harmony developed between them—each one needed the other four and, in turn, shared the sense that they too were needed. The whole convergence was like a lucky but entirely accidental chemical fusion, something that could only happen once. You might gather the same materials and make identical preparations, but you would never be able to duplicate the result.

After the initial volunteer period, they spent about two weekends a month at the after-school program, teaching the kids, reading to them, playing with them. They mowed the lawn, painted the building, and repaired playground equipment. They continued this work for the next two years, until they graduated from high school.

The only source of tension among them was the uneven number—the fact that their group was comprised of three boys and two girls. If two of the boys and two of the girls became couples, the remaining boy would be left out. That possibility must have always been hanging over their heads like a small, thick, lenticular cloud. But it never happened, nor did it even seem a likely possibility.
Perhaps coincidentally, all five of them were from suburban, upper-middle-class families. Their parents were baby boomers; their fathers were all professionals. Their parents spared no expense when it came to their children’s education. On the surface, at least, their families were peaceful, and stable. None of their parents got divorced, and most of them had stay-at-home mothers. Their high school emphasized academics, and their grades were uniformly good. Overall there were far more similarities than differences in their everyday environments.

And aside from Tsukuru Tazaki, they had another small, coincidental point in common: their last names all contained a color. The two boys’ last names were Akamatsu—which means  “red pine”—and Oumi—“blue sea”; the girls’ family names were Shirane—“white root”—and Kurono—“black field.” Tazaki was the only last name that did not have a color in its meaning. From the very beginning this fact made him feel a little bit left out. Of course, whether or not you had a color as part of your name had nothing to do with your personality. Tsukuru understood this. But still, it disappointed him, and he surprised himself by feeling hurt. Soon, the other four friends began to use nicknames: the boys were called Aka (red) and Ao (blue); and the girls were Shiro (white) and Kuro (black). But he just remained Tsukuru. How great it would be, he often thought, if I had a color in my name too. Then everything would be perfect.

Aka was the one with the best grades. He never seemed to study hard, yet was at the top of his class in every subject. He never bragged about his grades, however, and preferred to cautiously stay in the background, almost as if he were embarrassed to be so smart. But as often is the case with short people—he never grew past five foot three—once he made up his mind about something, no matter how trivial it might be, he never backed down. And he was bothered by illogical rules and by teachers who couldn’t meet his exacting standards. He hated to lose; whenever he lost a tennis match, it put him in a bad mood. He didn’t act out, or pout—instead, he just became unusually quiet. The other four friends found his short temper amusing and often teased him about it. Eventually Aka would always break down and laugh along with them. His father was a professor of economics at Nagoya University.

Ao was impressively built, with wide shoulders and a barrel chest, as well as a broad forehead, a generous mouth, and an imposing nose. He was a forward on the rugby team, and in his senior year he was elected team captain. He really hustled on the field and was constantly getting cuts and bruises. He wasn’t good at buckling down and studying, but he was a cheerful person and enormously popular among his classmates. He always looked people straight in the eye, spoke in a clear, strong voice, and had an amazing appetite, seeming to enjoy everything set down in front of him. He also had a quick recall of people’s names and faces, and seldom said anything bad about anyone else. He was a good listener and a born leader. Tsukuru could never forget the way he’d gather his team around him before a match to give them a pep talk.

“Listen up!” Ao would bellow. “We’re going to win. The only question is how and by how much. Losing is not an option for us. You hear me? Losing is not an option!”

“Not an option!” the team would shout, before rushing out onto the field.

Not that their high school rugby team was all that good. Ao was clever and extremely athletic, but the team itself was mediocre. When they went up against teams from private schools, where players had been recruited from all over the country on athletic scholarships, Ao’s team usually lost. “What’s important,” he’d tell his friends, “is the will to win. In the real world we can’t always win. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.”

“And sometimes you get rained out,” Kuro remarked, with typical sarcasm.

Ao shook his head sadly. “You’re confusing rugby with baseball or tennis. Rugby’s never postponed on account of rain.”

“You play even when it’s raining?” Shiro asked, surprised. Shiro knew next to nothing about  sports, and had zero interest in them.

“That’s right,” Aka said seriously. “Rugby matches are never canceled. No matter how hard it rains. That’s why every year you get a lot of players who drown during matches.”

“My God, that’s awful!” Shiro said.

“Don’t be silly. He’s joking,” Kuro said, in a slightly disgusted tone.

“If you don’t mind,” Ao went on, “my point is that if you’re an athlete you have to learn how to be a good loser.”

“You certainly get a lot of practice with that every day,” Kuro said.

Shiro was tall and slim, with a model’s body and the graceful features of a traditional Japanese doll. Her long hair was a silky, lustrous black. Most people who passed her on the street would turn around for a second look, but she seemed to find her beauty embarrassing. She was a serious person, who above all else disliked drawing attention to herself. She was also a wonderful, skilled pianist, though she would never play for someone she didn’t know. She seemed happiest while teaching piano to children in an after-school program. During these lessons, Shiro looked completely relaxed, more relaxed than Tsukuru saw her at any other  time. Several of the children, Shiro said, might not be good at regular schoolwork, but they had a natural talent for music and it would be a shame to not develop it. The school only had an old upright piano, almost an antique, so the five of them started a fund-raising drive to buy a new one. They worked part-time during summer vacation, and persuaded a company that made musical instruments to help them out. In the spring of their senior year, their hard work finally paid off, resulting in the purchase of a grand piano for the school. Their campaign caught people’s attention and was even featured in a newspaper.

Shiro was usually quiet, but she loved animals so much that when a conversation turned to dogs and cats, her face lit up and the words would cascade out from her. Her dream was to become a veterinarian, though Tsukuru couldn’t picture her with a scalpel, slicing open the belly of a Labrador retriever, or sticking her hand up the anus of a horse. If she went to vet school, that’s exactly the kind of training she’d have to do. Her father ran an ob-gyn clinic in Nagoya.

Kuro wasn’t beautiful, but she was eager and charming and always curious. She was large-boned and full-bodied, and already had a well-developed bust by the time she was sixteen. She was independent and tough, with a mind as quick as her tongue. She did well in humanities subjects, but was hopeless at math and physics. Her father ran an accounting firm in Nagoya, but there was no way she would ever be able to help out. Tsukuru often helped her with her math homework. She could be sarcastic but had a unique, refreshing sense of humor, and he found talking with her fun and stimulating. She was a great reader, too, and always had a book under her arm.

Shiro and Kuro had been in the same class in junior high and knew each other well, even before the five of them became friends. To see them together was a wonderful sight: a unique and captivating combination of a beautiful, shy artist and a clever, sarcastic comedian.

Tsukuru Tazaki was the only one in the group without anything special about him. His grades were slightly above average. He wasn’t especially interested in academics, though he did pay close attention during class and always made sure to do the minimum amount of practice  and review needed to get by. From the time he was little, that was his habit, no different from washing your hands before you eat and brushing your teeth after a meal. So although his grades were never stellar, he always passed his classes with ease. As long as he kept his grades up, his parents were never inclined to pester him to attend cram school or study with a tutor.

He didn’t mind sports but never was interested enough to join a team. He’d play the occasional game of tennis  with his family or friends,  and go skiing or swimming every once in a while. That was about it. He was pretty good-looking, and sometimes people even told him so, but what they really meant was that he had no particular defects to speak of. Sometimes, when he looked at his face in the mirror, he detected an incurable boredom. He had no deep interest in the arts, no hobby or special skill. He was, if anything, a bit taciturn; he blushed  easily, wasn’t especially outgoing, and could never relax around people he’d just met.

If pressed to identify something special about him, one might notice that his family was the most affluent of the five friends, or that an aunt on his mother’s side was an actress—not a star by any means,  but still fairly well known. But when it came to Tsukuru himself, there was not one single quality he possessed that was worth bragging about or showing off to others. At least that was how he viewed himself. Everything about him was middling, pallid, lacking in color.

The only real interest he had was train stations. He wasn’t sure why, but for as long as he could remember, he had loved to observe train stations—they had always appealed to him. Huge bullet-train stations; tiny, one-track stations out in the countryside; rudimentary freight-collection stations—it didn’t matter what kind, because as long as it was a railway station, he loved it. Everything about stations moved him deeply.

Like most little boys he enjoyed assembling model trains, but what really fascinated him weren’t the elaborate locomotives or cars, the intricately intersecting rail tracks, or the cleverly designed dioramas. No, it was the models of ordinary stations set down among the other parts, like an afterthought. He loved to watch as the trains passed by the station, or slowed down as they pulled up to the platform. He could picture the passengers coming and going, the announcements on the speaker system, the ringing of the signal as a train was about to depart, the station employees  briskly going about their duties. What was real and what was imaginary mingled in his mind, and he’d tremble sometimes with the excitement of it all. But he could never adequately explain to people why he was so attracted to the stations. Even if he could, he knew they would think he was one weird kid. And sometimes Tsukuru himself wondered if something wasn’t exactly right with him.

Though he lacked a striking personality, or any qualities that made him stand out, and despite always aiming for what was average, the middle of the road, there was (or seemed to be) something about him that wasn’t exactly normal, something that set him apart. And this contradiction continued to perplex and confuse him, from his boyhood all the way to the present, when he was thirty-six years old. Sometimes the confusion was momentary and insubstantial, at other times deep and profound.
Sometimes Tsukuru couldn’t understand why he was included in their group of five. Did the others  really need him? Wouldn’t they be able to relax and have a better time if he weren’t there?  Maybe they just hadn’t realized it yet, and it was only a matter of time before they did? The more he pondered this dilemma, the less he understood. Trying to sort out his value to the group was like trying to weigh something that had no unit value. The needle on the scale wouldn’t settle on a number.

But none of these concerns  seemed to bother the other four. Tsukuru could see that they genuinely loved it when all five of them got together as a group. Like an equilateral pentagon, where all sides are the same length, their group’s formation had to be composed of five people exactly—any more or any less wouldn’t do. They believed that this was true. 

And naturally Tsukuru was happy, and proud, to be included as one indispensable side of the pentagon. He loved his four friends, loved the sense of belonging he felt when he was with them. Like a young tree absorbing nutrition from the soil, Tsukuru got the sustenance he needed as an adolescent from this group, using it as necessary food to grow, storing what was left as an emergency heat source inside him. Still, he had a constant, nagging fear that someday he would fall away from this intimate community, or be forced out and left on his own. Anxiety raised its head, like a jagged, ominous rock exposed by the receding  tide, the fear that he would be separated from the group and end up entirely alone.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and his Years of Pilgrimage: A novel 3.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 33 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I really enjoyed Haruki Murakami's book IQ84, and couldn't wait to read this new book Colorless Tsukuri, but found it interesting with a less than satisfactory ending. Some people may like an ending that is vague, so it can be Imagined, but I found it to be an anticlimax. Mr. Murakami is a very creative author and describes his characters and settings with great detail, non of which is repetitive and some of his observations of mundane daily human life are thought provoking. I gave it a 5/5 as it was well written, but just not the mind gripping tale I had hoped it would be. His IQ84 would be a 10/5 in comparison.
yisits More than 1 year ago
If you've liked Murakami's other books you probably will like this one. If you like books that have straightforward plots and neat endings then you probably won't like this one. There are some pretty obvious cliches in the beginning but if you pass over them you enjoy the story.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I'll give this book three stars. It's a good book in its own right, but for Mr. Murakami, I was a bit disappointed. There was a lot of redundancy and the ending seemed rushed. It reads like a short story that was unnecessarily stretched and pulled into 240 page novel.
Bibsi More than 1 year ago
Is the sometimes stunted writing intentional or the result of poor translation? Does it matter? I can't answer the first; but the second is no! There is so much to appreciate, so much beautiful prose,so many astute but mystical observations about life, so much of Murakami's surrealistic metaphors, all wrapped in his unresolved plot, unsurpassed simplicity and marvelous structure that the book adds up to a wonder. Caution: Those who don't want to ponder the symbolism, who prefer neatly tied up conclusions, and who want an uncomplicated protagonist - - - Stay Away.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The plot was as lackluster as the main character. This immature character was no anyone I would want to spend time with. The problem character development never matured either.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Haruki Murakami adjusted the pace of the main character Tourkuri ever so slightly throughout the book but even with this subtle pace the book kept your interest & intrigued me until the very end.
DMWood More than 1 year ago
Murakami is a master of metaphor with deep meanings behind names, locations, actions, food, music, and every other aspect of his stories. While some have criticized this book as being too long, I believe the length does justice to the story being told. If it were shorter, the flavor or Tazaki, his four friends, and his girlfriend would be lost.
Anonymous 4 months ago
Super depressing with no real resolution or direction , very disappointing .
Nerek 9 months ago
I absolutely adore this book! I could not put it down, on the last couple of pages I did not want to finish it so I started reading slower.
Qalamkar 10 months ago
Very interesting as usual but when the book finished I felt unsatisfied. I wanted more; its almost like waiting for the dessert that never came.
nephetus More than 1 year ago
I have come to know Murakami for his engaging stories, tranquil pace and open ended stories. This book is no different. The protagonist is unable to able to view himself as others see him and as he traces back his past history with former friends, he becomes more and more enlightened. It is a enjoyable story of a man finding himself and what he wants, but as always there is room for interpretation at the end. I always recommend reading this book in a group so these type of events can be discussed.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
MeowMA More than 1 year ago
I found the concepts in Murakami's book unusual and interesting, but it made for slow reading. I'm reading it as part of a book club and I'm anxious to hear what pthers say.
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I at first was not sure what to expect when I got this book. I had read a great review on it from one of my favorite Time magazine writers, so I trusted his judgment, and I am happy to say that I truly enjoyed this book. Murakami's voice as an author is incredible, and the way he lets the reader feel as though he/she is on a journey with the main character is amazing. I would recommend this book to anyone who has ever questioned a relationship with friends, family, or anyone in his/her life or who has forgotten about something from their past that made them who they are.
KathyS More than 1 year ago
Murakami has to be one of my favorite writers and storytellers of all time, but I'm only giving this particular book three stars; leaving me saddened, in my own personal feelings during my reading; saddened for the main character's feelings; and saddened in the overall writing of this story. The boredom I continually felt, fought with my knowledge of my wanting to find something worth salvaging from this story.  There were fits and spurts of words of wisdom, but confused with sexual meaningless.  I felt as if I were in the midst of a Murakami personal journal, not good, not bad, just lacklusterly there and resigned.  I think “lackluster” pretty much covers it in a word.  Yes, writers can leave endings to the reader’s own imagination, but my imagination was split right down the middle, almost hoping Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki would simply die in the end from one of his “shooting pains to the heart”  Yes, again, this main character depressed me to that point.....instead he fades away...into his colorless unconscious.  Was there hope in the end?  Only Murakami can answer that.....  
Soylentsolvent More than 1 year ago
If you don't like books with cliff hangers, this is not the book for you. However, if you do then, read on. The writing itself was great, I actually liked the prose.
mtcroberts More than 1 year ago
I would suggest that readers listen to Years of Pilgrimage on YouTube. I wish i had listened to it as a read the book.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Thoroughly engrossing, but the ending was a little lacking.
ANLB More than 1 year ago
Once again Murakami takes us inside our minds to a place where we understand and appreciate what we cannot explain. His dreamscapes do exist somewhere within us – we’ve been there. Chip Kidd’s beautiful graphic presentation reminds us why holding a beautifully executed book in our hands will never be successfully usurped by a tablet.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Surprisingly, this novel is more like "Norwegian Wood" and less like "1Q84."  It is surprising because I have read that Murakami has said that he would not write another novel like "Norwegian Wood." There are some surreal elements in the form of dreams and tales and the reader is tempted to ponder whether they may intersect with reality in some way but, ultimately, it's easier to believe that they are just what they appear to be.  Typically, Murakami leaves most of the readers questions unanswered, one so blatantly that it feels like a deliberate parody.  Atypically, I do not believe that there is a single cat mentioned in the whole novel.  If you are reading it after you read this, please correct me if I am wrong.  Like all of Murakami's writings, I found it frustrating at times but ultimately a good read.I did not enjoy it as much as, say, "1Q84" or "The Wind up Bird Chronicle" but it is definitely worth the read.    
Anonymous More than 1 year ago