Haruki Murakami: Then and Now

One of Japan's most famous writers, Haruki Murakami,

“gets compared to American giants like Raymond Chandler and Kurt Vonnegut.”

But he has a one-of-a-kind writer, known for his surreal stories of adventure, and for simple and gentle love stories too. I'm Meg Walitzer, and coming up on selected shorts, a slice of the Japanese writers imagination,

on display with stories you've likely never heard before,

whole-tight. You're listening to selected shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. [MUSIC]

If you're a fiction lover, you already know and love Japanese writer Haruki Murakami, who has been producing extraordinary work for more than 35 years.

“You've read the English translations of works like One Q84,”

or The Wind Up Bird Chronicle, and we've featured plenty of Murakami's short stories right here on selected shorts. But for the sake of our uninitiated listeners, I'd like to introduce a few of his trademarks, so you can begin to understand what kind of writer Murakami is.

Here we go. A lonely guy, a mysterious disappearance, a parallel dimension, a faceless villain, jazz, spaghetti, talking cats. The list goes on, but suffice it to say that Murakami's motifs stay with you. They're sticky enough that illustrator Grant Snyder created a very funny cartoon

for the New York Times in 2014 titled Haruki Murakami Bingo, a playful distillation of Murakami's obsessions, cats, and all. I bring this up not because Murakami is a predictable writer,

“but because it's interesting to watch our favorite writers grow and change over time.”

As we read, we find out which of their fascinations fade away and which remain, which of their stories get reshaped and retold, and which stories spring up unexpectedly and surprise faithful fans. Today on a program dedicated to Murakami,

one story from his first translated collection, The Elephant Vannishes,

published in 1993, and one piece published in the New Yorker in 2024. More than three decades separate these two stories, and while we won't claim there the definitive examples of Murakami's work from their respective eras, they do exhibit certain hallmarks, while hinting at growth and change.

In one story, a professional letterwriter recalls an intimate encounter with a woman and a hamburger steak. In another, a woman goes on a blind date only to be blindsided. Both stories were recorded at the Japan Society in New York City as part of an ongoing collaboration with selected shorts.

We'll begin with a window, taken from Murakami's first full collection of stories.

For those who had yet to read early novels such as a wild sheep chase, it offered a first glimpse into the expanses of Murakami's imagination. A window is told in what we might consider his realistic mode, where he explores the intricacies of human feelings in an unusual circumstance without visitations from supernatural forces.

Reading it is Mike Doyle, an actor who was a regular in series including New Amsterdam and Law and Order SVU. Doyle is also a busy writer director with features under his belt such as passing through and almost love. Now, Mike Doyle reads a window by Haruki Murakami translated by Jay Rubin.

A window, greetings, the winter cold diminishes with each passing day and now the sunlight hints at the subtle scent of springtime. I trust that you are well. Your recent letter was a pleasure to read. The passage on the relationship between hamburger steak and nutmeg was especially

well written, I felt, so rich with the genuine sense of daily living. How vividly it conveyed the warm aromas of the kitchen, the lively tapping of the knife against the cutting board as it sliced through the onion. In the course of my reading, your letter filled me with such an irrepressible desire for hamburger steak that I had to go to a nearby restaurant and have one that very

night. In fact, the particular neighborhood establishment in question offers eight different varieties of hamburger steak, Texas style, Hawaiian style, Japanese style and the like. Texas style is big, period. It would no doubt come as a shock to any Texans who might find their

California style, I don't remember. Japanese style is smothered with graded

“icon. The place is smartly decorated and the waitresses are all pretty with extremely short skirts.”

Not that I had made my way there for the express purpose of studying the restaurant's interior decor or the waitresses' legs. I was there for one reason only and that was to eat hamburger steak. Not Texas style or California style or any other style, but plain, simple hamburger steak. Which is what I told the waitress. I'm sorry, she replied, but such a such style hamburger steak is the only kind we have here. I couldn't blame the waitress, of course. She hadn't set the menu.

She hadn't chosen to wear this uniform that revealed so much thigh every time. She cleared a dish from the table. I smiled at her and ordered a Hawaiian style hamburger steak. As she pointed out, I merely had to set the pineapple aside when I ate the steak. What a strange world we live in.

“All I want is a perfectly ordinary hamburger steak and the only way I can have it at this particular”

point in time is Hawaiian style without pineapple. Your own hamburger steak, I gather is the normal kind. Thanks to your letter, what I wanted most of all was an utterly normal hamburger steak made by you. By contrast, the passage on the national railways automatic ticket machines struck me as a bit

superficial. Your angle on the problem is a good one to be sure, but the reader can't vividly

grasp the scene. Don't try so hard to be the penetrating observer. Writing is after all, a makeshift thing. Your overall score on this newest letter is 70. Your style is improving slowly but surely. Don't be impatient. Just keep working as hard as you have been all along. I look forward to your next letter. Won't it be nice when spring really comes?

“Yes. Thank you for the box of assorted cookies. They are delicious. The society's rules,”

however, strictly forbid personal contact beyond the exchange of letters. I must ask you to restrain your kindness in the future. Nevertheless, thank you once again. I kept this part-time job going for a year. I was 22 at the time. I ground out 30 or more letters like this every month at 2,000 yen per letter. For a strange little company in the eatabashi district that called itself the Penn Society. You too can learn to write captivating letters

boasted the company's advertisements. New members paid an initiation fee and monthly dues. In return for which, they could write four letters a month to the Penn Society. We Penn Masters would answer their letters with letters of our own, such as the one quoted above. Containing corrections, comments, and guidance for future improvement. I had gone for a job interview after seeing an ad posted in the student office of the literature department.

At the time, certain events had led me to delay my graduation for a year and my parents had

informed me that they would consequently be decreasing my monthly support. For the first time in my

life, I was faced with having to make a living. In addition to the interview, I was asked to write several compositions and a week later I was hired. Then came a week of training in how to make corrections, offer guidance, other tricks of the trade, none of which was very difficult. All society members are assigned to Penn Masters of the opposite sex. I had a total of 24 members ranging in age from 14 to 53. The majority in the 25 to 35 range, which is to say,

"Most of them were older than I was." The first month, I panicked. The women were far better writers than I was, and they had a lot more experience as correspondence. I had hardly written

a serious letter in my life after all. I'm not quite sure how I made it through that first month.

I was in a constant cold sweat, convinced that most of the members in my charge would demand a new Penn Master, a privilege touted in the society's rules. The month went by and not one member raised a complaint about my writing far from it. The owner said I was very popular. Two more months went by and it even began to seem that my charges were improving thanks to my guidance. It was weird. These women looked up to me as their teacher with complete trust.

When I realized this, it enabled me to dash off my critiques to them with far less effort and anxiety. I didn't realize it at the time, but these women were lonely as were the male members

type to send fan letters to a DJ. They wanted something more personal, even if it had to come in the form of corrections and critiques. It happened that I spent part of my early 20s like a crippled walrus in a warmish harem of letters. What amazingly varied letters they were, boring letters, funny letters, sad letters. Unfortunately, I couldn't keep any of them. The rules required us to return all letters to the company. This happened so long ago that I can't recall them in detail

“but I do remember them as filled to overflowing with life in all its aspects. From the largest”

of questions to the tiniest of trivia and the messages they were sending seemed to me to me 22 year old college student, strangely divorced from reality, seemed at times to be utterly meaningless. Nor was this due solely to my own lack of life experience. I realize now that the reality of the thing is not something you convey to people, but something you make. It is this that gives birth to meaning. I didn't know it then, of course, and neither did the women. This was

surely one of the reasons that everything in their letters struck me as oddly two-dimensional. When it came time for me to leave the job, all members in my care expressed their regret.

“And though, quite frankly, I was beginning to feel that I had had enough of this endless job of”

letter writing, I felt sorry to, in a way, I knew that I would never, again, have so many people

opening themselves to me with such simple honesty. Hamburger steak. I did actually have the opportunity to eat a hamburger steak made by the woman to whom the earlier quoted letter was addressed. She was 32, no children, husband worked for a company that was generally considered the fifth best known in the country. When I informed her in my last letter that I would have to be leaving the job at the end of the month, she invited me to lunch. I'll fix you a perfectly normal hamburger steak,

she wrote, "In spite of the society's rules, I decided to take her up on it. The curiosity of a young man of 22 was not to be denied. Her apartment faced the tracks of the OdoQ line. The rooms had an orderliness befitting a childless couple. Neither the furniture or the lighting fixtures nor the women's sweater was of an especially costly sort, but they were nice enough. We began with mutual surprise, mine at her youthful appearance hers at my actual age.

She had imagined me as older than herself. The society did not reveal the ages of its pen masters.

Once we had finished surprising each other, the usual tension of a first meeting was gone.

We ate our hamburger steak and drank coffee feeling much like two would-be passengers who had missed the same train. And speaking of trains from the window of her third floor apartment, one could see the electric train line below. The weather was lovely that day, and over the railings of the building's verandas hung a colorful assortment of sheets and futons, drying in the sun. Every now and then came the slap of a bamboo whisk, fluffing out a futon.

I can bring back the sound even now. It was strangely devoid of any sense of distance. The hamburger steak was perfect. The flavor exactly right. The outer surface grilled to a crisp, dark brown, the inside full of juice, the sauce ideal.

“Although I could not honestly claim that I had never eaten such a delicious hamburger in my life,”

it was certainly the best I had had in a very long time. I told her so, and she was pleased. After the coffee, we told each other our life stories while a bird-backer record played. Since I didn't really have a life story, as yet, she did most of the talking. In college, she had wanted to be a writer. She said she talked about François Sagan, one of her favorites. She especially liked Emma Vubrom. I myself did not dislike Sagan, at least I didn't find her as

cheap, as everyone said. There's no law requiring everyone to write novels like Henry Miller or

Jean-Junei. "I can't write, though," she said. "Well, it's never too late to start," I said.

She smiled. Writing letters to you, I finally realized it. I just don't have the talent.

I turned bright red. It's something I almost never do now, but when I was 22, I blushed all the time.

Really, though, you're writing had something honest about it. Instead of answering, she smiled. A tiny smile. At least one letter made me go out for a hamburger steak.

“"You must have been hungry at the time." And indeed, maybe, I had been.”

A train passed below the window with a dry clatter. When the clock struck five, I said I would be leaving. I'm sure you have to make dinner for your husband. He comes home very late, she said, her cheek gets to her hand. He won't be back before midnight. He must be a very busy man. I suppose so. She said, pausing momentarily. I think I once wrote to you about my problem. There are certain things I can't really talk with him about. My feelings don't get through to him.

A lot of the time, I feel we're speaking two different languages. I didn't know what to say to her. I couldn't understand how one could go on living with someone to whom it was impossible to convey one's feelings. But it's all right. She said softly, and she made it sound as if it really were. All right. Thanks for writing letters to me all these months. I enjoyed them truly. And writing back to you was

my salvation. I enjoyed your letters, too. I said, though, in fact, I could hardly remember anything. She had written for a while without speaking. She looked at the clock on the wall. She seemed almost to be examining the flow of time. "What are you going to do after a graduation?" she asked. I hadn't decided. I told her. I had no idea of what to do. When I said this, she smiled again. Maybe you ought to do some kind of work

that involves writing. She said, "Your critiques were beautifully written. I used to look forward to them. I really did. No flattery intended. For all I know you were just writing them to fulfill a quota. But they had a real feeling. I've kept them all. I take them out every once in a while and reread them." Thank you. I said, "And thanks for the hamburger."

“Ten years have gone by, but whenever I pass her neighborhood on the Odeculean, I think of her”

and of her crisply grilled hamburger steak. I look out at the buildings, range along the tracks, and ask myself, "Which window could be hers?" I think about the view from that window and try to figure out where it could have been. But I can never remember. Perhaps she doesn't live there anymore. But if she does, she's probably still listening to that same "Burt" background record on the other side of her window. Should I have slept with her?" That's the central question of this piece.

The answer is beyond me. Even now, I have no idea. There are lots of things we never

understand. No matter how many years we put on, no matter how much experience we accumulate, all I can do is look up from the train at the windows in the buildings that might be hers.

“Every one of them could be her window. It sometimes seems to me. And at other times, I think that”

none of them could be hers. There are simply too many of them. Thank you. [ Applause ] That was Mike Doyle reading a window by her rookie Murakami translated by Jay Rubin. I'm Meg Wallitzer. Easy to see why Americans were drawn to Murakami's earliest stories, isn't it? They're fun, ruminative, accessible, and maybe just as importantly as fixated on Western

culture as Westerners are. Speaking of a fixation on Western culture, maybe you remember the second

bakery attack, another of Murakami's stories that we've read on shorts, in which a young couple ends up robbing a McDonald's in the middle of the night. Now that we've heard one of Murakami's older grounded tales, when we return will hear something more recent and more strange. Also, it features an opening line that may startle you almost as much as it shocks the stories protagonist. You're listening to selected shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space

in New York City and at other venues nationwide.

of fiction, one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wallitzer. This week we delve into two

“areas of the great Japanese writer Haruki Murakami. Got an author to whom you'd like us to”

dedicate an entire show, get in touch, where at selected shorts on X, at selected underscore shorts on Instagram and on Facebook as you guessed it, selected shorts. Send us a message on those apps or write us in the comments section on your favorite podcasting platform. We'd love to hear from you. You've just heard some great short fiction. Now it's your turn. It's time for the 2026 Stella Cupferberg Memorial Short Story Prize. We're very excited that this year's guest judge

is one of shorts's favorite funny mainstays Simon Rich. The winning work will be performed by an actor in spring 2026 and published on electric literature. The winning writer will receive a thousand dollars and a free 10-week course with Gotham writers. You have until March 6th to submit your story which you can do by going to selected shorts.org and scrolling to the bottom of the page. We can't wait to read your submission. At the top of the show we heard a story from Haruki Murakami's

first collection the elephant vanishes from 1993. It was sweet, melancholy and fairly realistic.

Now we leap forward to 2024 into the pages of the New Yorker magazine for something completely different. Murakami's short story entitled "Kaho." While the story is told in the third person, it hues closest to the perspective of a young woman and if you are a Murakami devotee, this might surprise you. Most often, his narrators are men, he considers kind of stand-ins for

“himself. Here we never leave the side of our protagonist, "Kaho," and I think from the first line,”

you'll understand why. Reading the story is theater-regular Jennifer Akeda. She appeared on Broadway in top girls and in TV series including blue blunts and dash and lily. She is not only a regular and selected shorts, but is an award-winning audio book narrator with over a hundred credits to her name. Now, Jennifer Akeda brings us "Kaho" by Haruki Murakami translated by Philip Gabriel. "Kaho." I've dated all kinds of women in my life, the man said,

"But I have to say, I've never seen one as ugly as you." This came after they'd had dessert,

while they were waiting for coffee to be served. It took a moment for his words to sink in. Three, maybe four seconds. The statement came out of nowhere and "Kaho" couldn't immediately read his intentions. As the man was pronouncing these blunt alarming words, he was smiling the whole time. A gentle, mostly friendly type of smile. There wasn't even a hint of humor in what he said. He wasn't making a joke. He was completely serious.

“The only way that Kaho could think of reacting was to take the napkin from her lap,”

toss it onto the table, grab her purse from the chair beside her, stand up and without a word, leave the restaurant. That would most likely be the best way to deal with the situation. But somehow Kaho couldn't. One reason for this, one that occurred to her only later on,

was that she was genuinely startled. A second reason was curiosity.

She was angry. Of course she was. How could she not be? But more than that, she wanted to know what in the world this man was trying to tell her. Was she really that ugly? And was there something beyond this remark? Saying you're the ugliest, maybe a bit of an overstatement, the man added after a pause. But you are the plainest woman I've seen, no doubt about it. Kaho purseed her lips and silently studied the man's face, her eyes fixed on him.

Why did this man feel the need to say something like that? On a blind date, which this sort of was, if you don't like the other person that much, then you can just not get in touch afterward, simple enough, why insult her to her face? The man was probably 10 years or so older than Kaho. Handsome, his clothes, spotless, and impeccable. He wasn't exactly Kaho's type, though he looked like he came from a good family. He had a photogenic face. That might be a

more accurate way of putting it. Add a couple of inches to his height, and he could have been an actor. The restaurant he chose, too, was cozy and stylish. The dishes tasty and refined.

and there had been no awkward silences. Oddly though, when she looked back on it later, she couldn't remember what they'd talked about. During dinner, she'd found herself warming to him, she had to admit it. And then out of nowhere, this, what was happening here, you might find this strange. He said in a calm voice, after two espresso's had been brought to their table. It was if he could read Kaho's mind. He dropped a small sugar cube into his espresso,

“and quietly stirred it. Why did I have dinner to the very end with someone I find ugly?”

Or maybe I should say, whose face I don't like? After we'd drunk the first glass of wine, I should have been able to just cut the evening short. It's a complete waste of time, isn't it? To take an hour and a half and eat a three-course dinner, and why, at the very tail end of the evening, do I have to say something like that? Kaho remained silent, staring at the face of the man across the table. Her hands clutched the napkin and her lap tightly. I think it's because I couldn't

stifle my curiosity. The man said, "Probably I wanted to know what a really homely woman like you was thinking. How being so homely actually affects your life." And was your curiosity satisfied? Kaho wondered, of course she didn't ask it out loud, and was my curiosity satisfied?

“The man asked after taking a sip of coffee. There was no mistake here. He could read her thoughts,”

like an antider, looking an ant hill clean with its long thin tongue. The man shook his head a fraction and returned his cup to the saucer and answered his own question. No. It wasn't. He raised his hand, called the waiter over and paved the bill. He turned to Kaho, bowed slightly, and went straight out of the restaurant. He didn't even look back.

Truth be told, since she was little, Kaho had never been that interested in her looks.

The face she saw on the mirror didn't strike her as either beautiful or especially ugly. It didn't disappoint her or make her happy. Her lack of interest in her face stemmed from the fact that she didn't feel that her looks were affecting her life in any way. Or perhaps it was

“better to say that she'd never had an opportunity to know if they were. She was an only child,”

and her parents had always showered her with an affection that was likely unconnected to how pretty she might or might not be. Through adolescence, Kaho remained indifferent to her looks. Most of her girlfriends brooded over their appearance and tried every makeup trick in the book to improve it, but she couldn't understand this urge. She spent very little time in front of the mirror. Her only goal was to keep her body and her face appropriately clean and neat,

and that was never a particularly difficult task. She attended a Kaho Ed public high school and

had a few boyfriends. If the boys in her class had voted for their favorite female classmate, she never would have won. She wasn't that type. Still, for some reason, in every class she was in, there were always one or two boys who were interested in her and showed it. Kaho had no clue what it was about her that interested them. Even after she graduated from high school and started attending an art school in Tokyo, she seldom lacked for boyfriends, so there was no need for her to

worry about whether she was attractive or not. In that sense, you could say she was lucky.

She always found it quite odd that friends who were far better looking than she was

agonized over their looks. In some cases, undergoing expensive plastic surgery, Kaho could never fathom this. And so when, a little after her 26th birthday, this man, she'd never met before bluntly told her she was ugly. Kaho was deeply confused. Instead of feeling shock at his words, she was quite simply unsettled and bewildered. It was her editor, a woman named Machida who'd introduced her to the man. Machida worked at a

small publishing company in Kanda, mainly putting out books for children. She was four years older than Kaho, had two children herself and edited the children's books that Kaho created. Kaho's picture books didn't sell all that well, but between those and her freelance work

Kaho had just broken up with a man her own age whom she'd gone out with for a little over two

years and was feeling unusually down. The breakup had left a bad taste. And partly because of this, her work wasn't going well. Aware of the situation, Machida set up the blind date for her. It might be just the change of pace you need, she told her. Three days after Kaho met the man, Machida called her. So, how is the date? She wasted no time in asking. Kaho gave a big,

“skirting a direct answer, and then asked a question of her own. What kind of person is he anyway?”

Machida said, honestly, I don't know that much about him. Sort of a friend of a friend kind of thing. I think he's near 40, single, and works in investments of some kind. He's from a good background and good at his job. No criminal record as far as I know. And Madam Wants, and we talked for a few minutes, and I thought he was handsome and seemed pleasant enough. He's a little on the short side, I'll admit. But then Tom Cruise isn't that tall either. Not that I've ever seen Tom Cruise

in person. But why would a man so handsome, pleasant, and good at his job have to go to the trouble of going on a blind date, Kaho asked? Wouldn't he have plenty of women he could go out with?

“Machida said, I suppose so. He's very sharp, efficient at his job, but I happen to hear that his”

personality is a little quirky. I decided not to mention that, since I didn't want to prejudice you before you met him. A little quirky Kaho said, repeating the words, she shook her head. Could you really call that a little quirky? Did you exchange phone numbers? Machida asked. Kaho paused a moment

before replying, exchange phone numbers? No, we didn't. She said, finally. Three days after this,

Machida called her again. I'm calling about the handsome Mr. Sahara. Can you talk? She said. Sahara was the name of the man with whom she'd had the blind date, pronounced the same way as the desert. Kaho put down her drawing pen and shifted the receiver from her left hand to her right. Sure. Go ahead. Last night, he called me, Machida said. He said he'd like to see you again and wondered if you two could talk. He sounded pretty serious. Kaho couldn't help, but gasp

and was silent for a while. He wants to see me again so the two of us could talk. Kaho couldn't

“believe what she was hearing. Kaho chan Machida said, sounding concerned. Are you listening?”

Yes, I'm listening. Kaho said. He seemed to like you, so what should I tell him? Common sense dictated that she's saying no. He had, after all, said such horrible things right to her face. Why would she ever need to see that kind of person again? But she couldn't reach a decision at this point. Several doubts converged in her brain all jumbled together. Can I think about it? She asked Machida. Let me call you back.

Kaho ended up seeing Sahara one more time. That Saturday afternoon. They arranged to meet during the day for a short time with no meal or alcohol involved at a place where they could talk quietly, though there could be other people nearby. Those were Kaho's conditions which Machida conveyed to him.

Odd conditions for a second date, Machida commented, you're being extremely cautious.

I suppose Kaho said, you haven't hidden a wrench in your purse or anything, right? Machida asked, and laughed happily. That might not be such a bad idea. Kaho thought. The last time they'd met Sahara had looked as if he were on his way home from work in a nice dark suit and tie. But this time he had on a casual weekend outfit, a thick brown leather jacket, slim jeans and well worn-in work boots, sunglasses stuck in his breast pocket.

Quite a stylish look. Kaho arrived a little later than the set time, and when she got to the hotel lobby Sahara was already there texting someone. When he spotted Kaho, a faint smile rose to his lips, and he closed the leather flap on his cell phone cover. There was a motorcycle helmet on the seat

displacement, and the engine makes the nicest, boldest sound. Kaho didn't say anything.

“I couldn't care less what you ride. A BMW motorcycle, a tricycle, or an ox cart, she silently”

muttered to herself. I bet you're not at all interested in motorcycles, but I thought I'd mention it anyway, just FYI. Sahara added, "This guy knows how to read my feelings," Kaho thought again. A waitress came over and she ordered coffee. Sahara ordered chamomile tea. By the way,

have you been to Australia? Sahara asked. Kaho shook her head. She'd never been to Australia.

Do you like spiders? Sahara asked. Forming a fan in the air with both hands, arachnids, the kind with eight legs. Kaho didn't reply. She hated spiders more than anything,

“but wasn't about to reveal that. Sahara said, "When I went to Australia, I saw a spider the”

size of a baseball mitt, just looking at it, gave me the creeps. Maybe shutter, but the locals actually welcomed them into their homes. You know why? Kaho remained silent. Because they're nocturnal and they eat cockroaches. They're what you'd call useful beneficial bugs, still. Imagine

having spiders that eat cockroaches. I'm always amazed by how clever and magnificent the structure

of the food chain is. The coffee and the herbal tea came, and for a while the two of them sat before their drinks without speaking. I imagine you find it kind of odd. Sahara said after a few minutes his tone formal that I wanted to see you again like this. Again, Kaho didn't respond. She didn't dare to. And I must say I'm truly surprised that you would agree to see me again. Sahara said, "I feel thankful, but I was astonished that you'd agree to it after the rude thing I said.

No, what I said went beyond rude. It was an unforgivable insult that tramples on a woman's dignity.

When I say that to women, most of them never agreed to see me again.

Which is only to be expected, really. Most of them. Kaho repeated his words in her mind. That shocked her. Most of them, she said, "Speaking for the first time." You mean that you've said the same thing to all the women you meet. You're saying exactly, Sahara readily admitted, "I tell all the women I meet exactly what I said to you. I've never seen anyone as ugly as you. Usually when we're enjoying dinner and dessert has just been served with this kind of thing, timing is everything."

“But why Kaho asked her voice, "Stry, why do you have to do something like that? I don't get it.”

You hurt people for no reason. You spent time and money just to insult them?" Sahara tilted his head a little and said, "Why?" That's the real question. It's too complicated to explain. Instead, why don't we talk about the effects such a statement has? What always surprises me is the reaction of the women I say that to. You might think that having those awful words said right to their face, most people would fly into a rage or else laugh it off.

And there are people like that, but not that many, really. The majority of women are simply hurt, deeply, and for a long time. In some cases, they blurred out something weird, something hard to comprehend. Silence rained for a while. After a time, Kaho broke it, and you're saying you enjoy seeing these reactions. No, I don't enjoy it. I just find it strange. How when women who are obviously beautiful, or at least well above average, are told to their

face that they're ugly, how amazingly flustered or hurt they get? The coffee she hadn't touched,

"The horror noted." I guess so. You're probably right. I might be sick. Not to excuse myself or anything,

“but in a sick person's eyes, it's the world that's even sicker, right? Listen, now it is people”

severely attack lookism. Most people loudly denounce beauty contests, say the words ugly, woman in public, and you'll get beaten up, but check out TV and magazines. They're full of ads for cosmetics, plastic surgery, and spa treatments. No matter how you look at it, it's a ridiculous meaningless double standard, a farce, really. But that doesn't justify hurting other people for no reason, doesn't Kaho counter it. Yes, you're right. Zahara said, "I am sick." That's an undeniable

fact, but depending on how you look at it, being sick can also be enjoyable. Sick people have their own special place that only sick people can enjoy, like Disneyland for the disturbed. And fortunately,

“for me, I have the time and the money to enjoy that place, without a word Kaho stood up,”

time to put an end to this. She couldn't talk to this man anymore. Hold on a sec, Zahara said the Kaho as she stood there. Could you give me just a bit more of your time? It won't take long, five minutes is enough. I'd like you to stay and hear me out. Kaho hesitated for a few seconds, then took her seat again. She didn't want to, but there was something in this man's voice that she found hard to resist. What I wanted to say to you was that the reaction you had was

different from anyone else's. Zahara said, "When you were assaulted by those awful words, you didn't panic, didn't respond and anger, didn't laugh it off, and didn't look so hurt by it. Without letting any of these tried emotions take over, you just gazed at me. As if you were studying some bacteria under a microscope, you're the only one who's ever reacted that way. I was impressed and I thought, why doesn't this woman feel hurt? If there is something that would deeply wound

her well, then what is it? So you're doing this, Kaho said, setting up these elaborate meetings over and over just to see women's reactions? That's it? The man inclined his head. There haven't been

all that many. Just when the opportunity presents itself, I never use a dating app or anything,

things that are too simple or boring. People I know introduce me, and I meet only women whose backgrounds I know about. Old fashioned, only eye-type arranged meetings are the best. The old school approach. I find not exciting. And then you insult the women, Kaho said, Sahara didn't respond. He merely gave a smile that soon subsided. He held his hands out in front of his chest, studying them for a while, as if checking whether there had been any changes

in the lines in his palms. I was wondering if you'd go riding with me on my motorcycle, he said, looking up. I brought along an extra helmet for you. The weather's good today. We can enjoy tooling around. I just passed 5,000 kilometers on the odometer, and the horizontally opposed engine BMW so proud of is tuned to perfection. An undeniable rage boiled up inside, Kaho.

It had been some time since she'd felt this angry. Or perhaps it was the first time ever.

“We can enjoy tooling around. What the hell was he thinking?”

I'll pass, Kaho said, keeping her emotions under wraps. Her voice as calm as she could manage. Do you know the number one thing I want to do right now? Sahara shook his head. What would that be? To put some distance between me and you, even a little distance, and scrub off this filth that's on me? I see. Sahara said, indeed. Well, I guess I'll have to unfortunately give up on tooling around this time. But what do you think?

You think wanting to get some distance from me will work out? What does that mean? Somewhere a baby cried. The man glanced in that direction, then looked right at Kaho.

I don't let them go that easily." And you might find this surprising, but in terms of distance, we're not that far apart, you and I. See, people can't escape the structure of the chain. No matter how much they don't want to see it, even if they want to have nothing to do with it, swallowing something and being swallowed are two sides of the same coin. Front and back,

“credit and debit. That's the way the world is. We will probably, I think,”

meet again somewhere. I should have never seen this man again. Kaho thought.

She was sure of this as she strode quickly toward the exit. When Machita called me that time, I should have made that clear. No thanks, I should have said. I never want to see that person again. It was curiosity. Curiosity that led me here. I think I wanted to find out what in the world this man was aiming at, what he wanted. I think I wanted to know that, but that was a mistake. He used curiosity as bait to skillfully lure me in just as a spider would. A chill ran up her spine.

I want to go somewhere warm, she thought. The desire couldn't be stronger. A southern island,

“with a white beach. Lie down there, close my eyes, shut off my mind, and let the sunlight”

wash over me. Several weeks went by. Kaho, of course, wanted to drive away any thoughts of that man Sahara from her mind as soon as she could shove this pointless episode one that had nothing to do

with her life, somewhere she'd never see it again. And yet, as she worked at her desk at night,

the man's face suddenly unexpectedly rose up in her mind. Smiling faintly, gazing for no particular reason at his long delicate fingers. She started spending more time in front of the mirror, much more than she ever had. She'd stand in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully checking every detail of her face as if reconfirming who she was. And it occurred to her that she wasn't

“much interested in any of it. This was definitely her face. Yet she could find nothing that”

dictated that it had to be her face. She even started to envy her friends who'd had plastic surgery. They knew, or at least believed they knew, which part of their face surgically altered would make them more beautiful, more satisfied with their looks. My own life may be taking a clever revenge on me. She couldn't help thinking this. When the right time comes, my life may simply take away

when I owe credit and debit. Kahou understood that if she'd never met that guy, Sahara, she never

would have thought this way. He may have been patiently waiting for the longest time for me to show up in front of him, she thought, like an enormous spider waiting for its prey in the dark. Occasionally, a large motorcycle would speed by on the street outside her apartment late at night, when everyone else was asleep. Whenever she heard the low, dry, throbbing, the drum beat of the engine, her body trembled ever so slightly. Her breathing grew ragged and cold sweat oozed from her

armpits. I brought along an extra helmet for you, the man had said. She pictured herself, riding on the back of that BMW motorcycle, and she imagined where that powerful machine would take her, what kind of place would it take me to? In terms of distance, we're not that far apart, you and I, the man had said. Six months after that strange blind date, Kahou wrote a new children's book. One night, she was dreaming she was at the bottom of a deep sea, and when she woke up, she

felt as if she were suddenly being tossed to the surface, floating up from the sea bottom. She went right to her desk and wrote the story. It didn't take long to finish. The story was about a girl who goes in search of her face. At a certain point, the girl had lost her face. Someone had stolen it while she was asleep, so she had to do something to get it back. But she couldn't remember it all

round or thin. She asked her parents, her siblings, but for some reason no one could recall what sort of

“face it was, or else no one was willing to tell her. So the girl decided to set out alone on a face-seeking”

journey. For the time being, she found a face that would fit her and pasted it on where her own face should be. Without a face, of some kind, people she met along the way would find her strange. The girl walked all over the world, climbed high mountains, crossed deep rivers, walked across vast deserts, managed to make her way through savage jungles. She was sure that if she came across her face, she'd recognize it right away. Since this is a very important part of my existence,

she told herself. As she traveled, she met many people and had all kinds of odd experiences. She was nearly trampled by a herd of elephants, was attacked by a huge black spider, was almost kicked by wild horses. A long time passed as she walked everywhere,

examining countless faces as she went, yet she never found her own face.

What she saw were always the faces of others. She didn't know what to do. And before she knew it,

“she was no longer a girl, but an adult woman. Would she never be able to find her own face again?”

She fell into despair. As she was sitting at the tip of a cape in a northern land, crying in utter hopelessness, a tall young man in a fur coat appeared and sat down beside her. His long hair gently waved in the wind from the sea. The young man gazed into her face and, smiling broadly, said this, "I've never seen a woman with such a lovely face as yours. By then, the face she'd paced it on had become her true face. All sorts of experiences,

all kinds of emotions and thoughts had joined together to create her face. This was her face and her face alone. She and the young man were married and lived happily in this northern land. For some reason, and Kahou herself wasn't at all sure why. This book seemed to spark something in the hearts of children, especially girls in their early teens. These young readers excitedly followed the girl's adventures and trials as she set off into the wide world in search of her face.

And when, in the end, the girl found her face and discovered inner peace, readers breed the sigh of relief. The writing was simple. Kahou's illustrations symbolic monochrome line drawings. And that tale, the work of writing and illustrating it brought a kind of emotional healing to Kahou as well. I can live in this world as me. Just as I am, she realized, there's nothing to fear. The dream she'd seen at the bottom of the sea had taught her that.

The anxiety she'd felt in the middle of the night grew fainter, though she couldn't say it was gone completely. The book sold steadily through word of mouth and got a good review in a newspaper, Machita was thrilled. I'm thinking, this children's book may become a long-term best seller. I just get that feeling, Machita said. It's a completely different style from your other books,

“which surprised me at first. But I wonder, where did you get the idea for it?”

After thinking about it for a moment, Kahou replied, in a very dark, deep place, she said. That was Kahou by Haruki Murakami translated by Philip Gabriel and performed by Jennifer Iketa. Not only does Murakami take on a female protagonist in that story, exceedingly rare for him, but he renders Kahou's thoughts and feelings with precision. Sure, there's the pompous audity of Sahara and the strangeness of Kahou's children's book, but the care and subtlety Murakami

exhibits in rendering Kahou makes her feel like a new and exciting invention in his work. I found an illuminating quote from an interview in the New Yorker with Murakami about Kahou.

He said, "My goal in this story was first off to present the reader with a suitably intriguing

I think that readers should find their own response. As the author, of course, I have an interpretation,

“but it's not necessarily the right one. It's simply one hypothesis and nothing more."”

So, for Murakami, what you make of his elliptical story is up to you. We could talk more about that or about protagonist growth, hopeful endings, or the mix of real and surreal, or any number of

things that might indicate shifts in Murakami's style, but let's save that for the retrospective.

In the meantime, whether you're new to Murakami or a longtime fan, we hope today's stories

“side-by-side have offered a glimpse at the breadth of one writer's long career. I'm Meg Wallitzer.”

Thanks for joining me for selected shorts.

Selected shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew

Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Roblesky. The readings are recorded by Miles Beesmith. Our programs presented at the Getty Center in Los Angeles are recorded by Phil Richards. Our theme music is David Peterson's "That's the Deal" performed by the Dear Door of Peter's In Group. Selected shorts is supported by the Dungeon and Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts,

with the support of Governor Kathy Hockel and the New York State Legislature. Selected shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.

“Hey, LA. Did you get your tickets for the Oscars ceremony yet?”

Yeah, we didn't either. So we're bringing together some of our favorite actors for a show that celebrates achievement in short story performance. Liza Wilde, Jason Ritter, Wendy Mallick, Michael Eury, Sashirzameta, and others will perform two shows at the Gorgeous Getty Center on Saturday, March 14th. Who needs the red carpet and Wolfgang Puck when you can spend the day strolling through the museum and visiting its charming cafe before the theater doors open? Join me,

your host for the festivities, Meg Wallitzer. And yes, I will be wearing a loner gown from proudest spring collection because I take the celebration of the short story very seriously. Get tickets and information at githy.edu/calendar.