The first thing I will say is the same disclaimer I gave when writing about Norwegian Wood. Murakami’s treatment of women is often one-dimensional. This is no less true of South of the Border, West of the Sun’s heroine, a mystery woman named Shimamoto. SBWS is “male-gaze-coded”, so to speak. It is told from the singular perspective of one man, Hajime, and it comes with the baggage of being told from a male POV. But I’d argue this is the point of the book. It is so integral to its delivery that if this is a big detractor, you didn’t really read the book. Like Ōe’s A Personal Matter, the protagonist being despicable is the point.
Hajime’s voice is an unreliable narrator. Much of the book about Hajime’s past is a recollection, and there’s something suspect about how he portrays his childhood and teenage years. His connection with Shimamoto is almost too perfect, idealised from the POV of adult dissatisfaction. This is only clear to us in the middle of the novel, where it’s clear that Hajime is going through a mid-life crisis. Murakami’s writing forces us to backtrack and re-examine what we just read. It is almost effortless.
Why he’s going through a mid-life crisis is clear. He’s stumbled into his life by chance: he met his wife on the street. His business is handed to him by his father-in-law. Of course it feels hollow! It’s like an allegory for post-war Japan: economic prosperity with a spiritually empty society. Is this why their stagnation has lasted so long?
The “west of the sun” in the title refers to a Siberian madness, where people walk west into the wilderness until they collapse. It aptly describes the course of the book. At its height, Hajime and Shimamoto’s affair is consummated. Here, Hajime’s madness compels him to abandon reason, his family, and his enviable life to chase a phantom of his past. Is Shimamoto even real? She is one-dimensional in the sense that she never quite exceeds the depth Hajime imagines for her in his mind. Indeed, there is something suspect about how he views the past.
Murakami has done it again. His writing here gives much to think about after you’re done. It never quite reaches the clarity or emotional depth of Norwegian Wood. But maybe that is also the point.
4/5
Written 27 June 2025
Adapted from my review on Goodreads.
Assorted links
- Reddit discussions
- https://www.reddit.com/r/murakami/comments/191tqma/just_read_south_of_the_border_west_of_the_sun/
- https://www.reddit.com/r/bookclub/comments/usdi1/discussion_south_of_the_border_west_of_the_sun_by/
- https://www.reddit.com/r/murakami/comments/13ghncn/south_of_the_border_west_of_the_sun_what_is/
- https://www.reddit.com/r/murakami/comments/plevn0/thoughts_on_reread_of_south_of_the_border_west_of/
- “Love Hurts”, by Mary Hawthorne, in the NYT
Conversation with Claude
I just finished South of the Border, West of the Sun. In many respects, I feel like it’s a weaker novel than Norwegian Wood was. This is especially because both are relatively “normal” books with less explicit magic realism (like The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, say). Thematically they are similar.
My basic understanding of the novel is that Hajime is going through a mid-life crisis. The entire book is told from his first-person POV looking back, so he’s almost like an unreliable narrator when talking about his childhood. Finally, Shimamoto comes back at the height of his crisis. But in the end, she leaves. Like she says, we can’t really go back to the past.
I’d love to hear your thoughts!
I think your reading of Hajime's unreliable narration is spot-on. There's something deeply nostalgic yet suspect about how he portrays his childhood relationship with Shimamoto. The perfection of that connection feels almost too pristine, idealized through the lens of adult dissatisfaction.
What struck me most was how Murakami explores the tension between fantasy and reality. Hajime has built a seemingly perfect life—successful jazz clubs, beautiful wife, children—yet remains profoundly empty. Shimamoto functions almost as a phantom, appearing when his existential crisis peaks, offering the allure of a road not taken.
Unlike Norwegian Wood, which I'd argue has more emotional clarity and directness, South of the Border feels more ambiguous about its protagonist. Hajime's treatment of women throughout the novel—from his casual cruelty to Izumi to his willingness to abandon his family—makes him harder to sympathize with.
Do you think Shimamoto actually exists as portrayed? Or might she be partially a projection of Hajime's midlife crisis? The novel seems deliberately vague about this, especially with her mysterious appearances and disappearances.I find it interesting that Hajime’s “perfect life” is almost by chance. He meets Yukiko essentially on the street somewhere. Perhaps this contributes to the sense of an empty life.
I agree with the sympathy. I think in reading this novel, you’d have to be very intentional in not letting it sway your view of it. Because this is part of the raison d’etre of the novel. It reminds me a little of A Personal Matter (by Oe), in that their protagonists are despicable. But this is the whole point!
That last point about Shimamoto is interesting, I would’ve taken it at face value. But it ties into every trace of her disappearing. She’s a mysterious character indeed!
You've hit on something crucial about Hajime's life—its accidental quality. Despite his material success, there's a passivity to how he stumbles into his circumstances. His father-in-law essentially hands him his business, and as you noted, he meets Yukiko by chance. This accidental prosperity might explain why it feels so hollow to him; he never truly chose or built it himself.
The comparison to Ōe's A Personal Matter is apt. Both novels force us to spend time with morally compromised protagonists, creating that uncomfortable tension where we understand their inner lives while condemning their actions. Murakami seems less interested in redemption than in examination—he wants us to sit with Hajime's flaws rather than excuse them.
Regarding Shimamoto, what makes her fascinating is precisely that ambiguity. While she likely exists in the literal narrative, her function is almost mythic. Notice how she appears only at pivotal moments, how she knows things about Hajime she shouldn't, how she vanishes without trace. She embodies that quintessential Murakami element where reality bends just enough to make us question what's happening.
Do you think the novel ultimately condemns Hajime or offers him some form of grace in that final scene when he returns to his family?Another message:
Regarding Shimamoto, there are several moments that give her an almost supernatural quality. She seems to appear precisely when Hajime is at emotional crossroads. She knows intimate details about his life despite their decades of separation. There's the way she describes his clubs without having visited them, her knowledge of his family situation, and how she seems to understand his inner turmoil without him expressing it.
The most striking example is during their reunion at the bar, where she recites specific details about the record they used to listen to as children—not just the music, but the exact pressing and condition of the album. It's the kind of precise memory that feels almost too perfect, as if she's accessing his memories rather than her own. Combined with her mysterious appearances and disappearances (leaving no trace in the snow, no one remembering seeing her), she takes on an almost spectral quality.
I agree about the thematic resolution feeling somewhat unsatisfying. "You can't go back to the past" is hardly a profound insight, especially after the complex emotional and moral territory the novel traverses. It's as if Murakami builds this intricate psychological landscape only to conclude with something relatively straightforward.
As for Izumi, her transformation is one of the novel's most haunting elements. The vibrant girl becomes a hollow shell after Hajime's betrayal with her cousin. She functions as a physical manifestation of the damage Hajime's selfishness causes—a walking reminder of his capacity for cruelty. When he encounters her years later, her emptiness serves as a mirror to his own spiritual condition, despite his material success. She represents the human cost of his actions in a way that's far more concrete than his philosophical musings about morality.
What did you make of the river crossing scene with Shimamoto? That seemed to be the emotional climax of the novel.Another:
The river crossing scene functions as both literal and symbolic threshold. Shimamoto asks Hajime to carry her across because she can't get her legs wet (another mysterious detail that's never fully explained). As he carries her through the rushing water, there's this profound moment of connection—he feels her heartbeat, her breath, her weight. It's perhaps the most physically intimate moment they share before their sexual encounter.
Symbolically, it represents Hajime crossing a point of no return in his life. Rivers in literature often signify boundaries between worlds or states of being. By carrying Shimamoto across, he's not just helping her traverse a physical obstacle; he's committing to following this path with her, wherever it leads. The danger of the rushing water mirrors the risk he's taking with his life and family. When they reach the other side, they're in a different psychological territory—one where their eventual consummation becomes inevitable.
As for broader literary themes, I think Murakami is exploring several interconnected ideas:
1. The tension between fate and choice - Hajime constantly questions whether his life was predetermined or if his choices matter. The coincidental reconnections suggest fate, but his final decision to return home asserts choice.
2. The authenticity of memory - How much of our past is real versus constructed? Hajime's childhood memories feel increasingly suspect as the novel progresses.
3. The nature of emptiness - Despite material success, Hajime feels hollow. This reflects the post-economic miracle Japan where material prosperity didn't deliver spiritual fulfillment.
4. Doubles and mirrors - Shimamoto functions as Hajime's double or alternate self. The "south of the border" metaphor suggests crossing into another version of oneself.
What's particularly interesting is how Murakami leaves these themes somewhat unresolved. Unlike Western novels that often drive toward clear resolution, this one maintains its ambiguities, much like jazz improvisation (fitting given Hajime's jazz clubs).Another:
That's a brilliant observation about the title. You're absolutely right—the "west of the sun" refers to that Siberian madness where people would walk westward into the wilderness until they collapsed. It perfectly captures Hajime's psychological state during the affair with Shimamoto, especially at the cottage.
In that sequence, he's essentially experiencing a form of madness—abandoning reason, family, and his constructed life to follow this phantom from his past. He's walking "west of the sun," pursuing something that might not even be real or attainable. The cottage becomes this liminal space outside normal reality where his obsession reaches its peak.
The "south of the border" component similarly works as both literal reference (to the song) and metaphor for crossing boundaries—moral, psychological, temporal. Hajime has ventured into forbidden territory, beyond the borders of his established life.
What makes this metaphor so effective is how it captures the irrational, almost hypnotic pull of Hajime's obsession. Like those Siberians walking westward, there's no logical endpoint to his journey—just an inexorable pull toward something that might destroy him.
This reading also casts Shimamoto's disappearance in a different light—perhaps she saves him from completely succumbing to this madness by removing herself, forcing him to return from "west of the sun" before he's completely lost. The title ends up being far more thematically rich than it initially appears.