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Dance Dance Dance [Format Kindle]

Haruki Murakami
4.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (1 commentaire client)

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1

I often dream about the Dolphin Hotel.

In these dreams, I'm there, implicated in some kind of ongoing circumstance. All indications are that I belong to this dream continuity.

The Dolphin Hotel is distorted, much too narrow. It seems more like a long, covered bridge. A bridge stretching endlessly through time. And there I am, in the middle of it. Someone else is there too, crying.

The hotel envelops me. I can feel its pulse, its heat. In dreams, I am part of the hotel.


I wake up, but where? I don't just think this, I actually voice the question to myself: "Where am I?" As if I didn't know: I'm here. In my life. A feature of the world that is my existence. Not that I particularly recall ever having approved these matters, this condition, this state of affairs in which I feature. There might be a woman sleeping next to me. More often, I'm alone. Just me and the expressway that runs right next to my apartment and, bedside, a glass (five millimeters of whiskey still in it) and the malicious--no, make that indifferent--dusty morning light. Sometimes it's raining. If it is, I'll just stay in bed. And if there's whiskey still left in the glass, I'll drink it. And I'll look at the raindrops dripping from the eaves, and I'll think about the Dolphin Hotel. Maybe I'll stretch, nice and slow. Enough for me to be sure I'm myself and not part of something else. Yet I'll remember the feel of the dream. So much that I swear I can reach out and touch it, and the whole of that something that includes me will move. If I strain my ears, I can hear the slow, cautious sequence of play take place, like droplets in an intricate water puzzle falling, step upon step, one after the other. I listen carefully. That's when I hear someone softly, almost imperceptibly, weeping. A sobbing from somewhere in the darkness. Someone is crying for me.


The Dolphin Hotel is a real hotel. It actually exists in a so-so section of Sapporo. Once, a few years back, I spent a week there. No, let me get that straight. How many years ago was it? Four. Or more precisely, four and a half. I was still in my twenties. I checked into the Dolphin Hotel with a woman I was living with. She'd chosen the place. This is where we're staying, was what she said. If it hadn't been for her, I doubt I'd ever have set foot in the place.

It was a tiny dump of a hotel. In the whole time we were there, I don't know if we saw another paying customer. There were a couple of characters milling around the lobby, but who knows if they were staying there? A few keys were always missing from the board behind the front desk, so I guess there were other hotel guests. Though not too many. I mean, really, you hang out a hotel sign somewhere in a major city, put a phone number in the business listings, it stands to reason you're not going to go entirely without customers. But granting there were other customers besides ourselves, they were awfully quiet. We never heard a sound from them, hardly saw a sign of their presence--with the exception of the arrangement of the keys on the board that changed slightly each day. Were they like shadows creeping along the walls of the corridors, holding their breath? Occasionally we'd hear the dull rattling of the elevator, but when it stopped the oppressive silence bore down once more.

A mysterious hotel.

What it reminded me of was a biological dead end. A genetic retrogression. A freak accident of nature that stranded some organism up the wrong path without a way back. Evolutionary vector eliminated, orphaned life-form left cowering behind the curtain of history, in The Land That Time Forgot. And through no fault of anyone. No one to blame, no one to save it.

The hotel should never have been built where it was. That was the first mistake, and everything got worse from there. Like a button on a shirt buttoned wrong, every attempt to correct things led to yet another fine--not to say elegant--mess. No detail seemed right. Look at anything in the place and you'd find yourself tilting your head a few degrees. Not enough to cause you any real harm, nor enough to seem particularly odd. Who knows? You might get used to this slant on things (but if you did, you'd never be able to view the world again without holding your head out of true).

That was the Dolphin Hotel. Normalness, it lacked. Confusion piled on confusion until the saturation point was reached, destined in the not-too-distant future to be swallowed in the vortex of time. Anyone could recognize that at a glance. A pathetic place, woebegone as a three-legged black dog drenched in December rain. Sad hotels existed everywhere, to be sure, but the Dolphin was in a class of its own. The Dolphin Hotel was conceptually sorry. The Dolphin Hotel was tragic.

t goes without saying, then, that aside from those poor, unsuspecting souls who happened upon it, no one would willingly choose to stay there.

A far cry from its name (to me, the "Dolphin" sobriquet suggested a pristine white-sugar candy of a resort hotel on the Aegean Sea), if not for the sign hung out front, you'd never have known the building was a hotel. Even with the sign and a brass plaque at the entrance, it scarcely looked the part. What it really resembled was a museum. A peculiar kind of museum where persons with peculiar curiosities might steal away to see peculiar items on display.

Which actually was not far from the truth. The hotel was indeed part museum. But I ask, would anyone want to stay in such a hotel? In a lodge-cum-reliquary, its dark corridors blocked with stuffed sheep and musty fleeces and mold-covered documents and discolored photographs? Its corners caked with unfulfilled dreams?

The furniture was faded, the tables wobbled, the locks were useless. The floorboards were scuffed, the light bulbs dim; the washstand, with ill-fitting plug, couldn't hold water. A fat maid walked the halls with elephant strides, ponderously, ominously coughing. And the sad-eyed, middle-aged owner, stationed permanently behind the front desk, had two fingers missing. The kind of a guy, by the looks of him, for whom nothing goes right. A veritable specimen of the type--dredged up from an overnight soak in thin blue ink, soul stained by misfortune, failure, defeat. You'd want to put him in a glass case and cart him to your science class: Homo nihilsuccessus. Almost anyone who saw the guy would, to a greater or lesser degree, feel their spirits dampen. Not a few would be angered (some folks get upset seeing miserable examples of humanity). So who would stay in that hotel?

Well, we stayed there. This is where we're staying, she'd said. And then later she disappeared. She upped and vanished. It was the Sheep Man who told me so. Thewomanleftalonethisafternoon, the Sheep Man said. Somehow, the Sheep Man knew. He'd known that she had to get out. Just as I know now. Her purpose had been to lead me there. As if it were her fate. Like the Moldau flowing to the sea. Like rain.

When I started having these dreams about the Dolphin Hotel, she was the first thing that came to mind. She was seeking me out. Why else would I keep having the same dream, over and over again?

She. What was her name? The months we'd spent together, and yet I never knew. What did I actually know about her? She'd been in the employ of an exclusive call girl club. A club for members only; persons of less-than-impeccable standing not welcome. So she was a high-class hooker. She'd had a couple other jobs on the side. During regular business hours she was a part-time proofreader at a small publishing house; she was also an ear model. In other words, she kept busy. Naturally, she wasn't nameless. In fact, I'm sure she went by a number of names. At the same time, practically speaking, she didn't have a name. Whatever she carried--which was next to nothing--bore no name. She had no train pass, no driver's license, no credit cards. She did carry a little notebook, but that was scrawled in an indecipherable code. Apparently she wanted no handle on her identity. Hookers may have names, but they inhabit a world that doesn't need to know.

I hardly knew a thing about her. Her birthplace, her real age, her birthday, her schooling and family background--zip. Precipitate as weather, she appeared from somewhere, then evaporated, leaving only memory. But now, the memory of her is taking on renewed reality. A palpable reality. She has been calling me via that circumstance known as the Dolphin Hotel. Yes, she is seeking me once more. And only by becoming part of the Dolphin Hotel will I ever see her again. Yes, there is no doubt; it is she who is crying for me.

Gazing at the rain, I consider what it means to belong, to become part of something. To have someone cry for me. From someplace distant, so very distant. From, ultimately, a dream. No matter how far I reach out, no matter how fast I run, I'll never make it.

Why would anyone want to cry for me?


She is definitely calling me. From somewhere in the Dolphin Hotel. And apparently, somewhere in my own mind, the Dolphin Hotel is what I seek as well. To be taken into that scene, to become part of that weirdly fateful venue.

It is no easy matter to return to the Dolphin Hotel, not a simple question of ringing up for a reservation, hopping on a plane, flying to Sapporo, and mission accomplished. For the hotel is, as I've suggested, as much circumstance as place, a state of being in the guise of a hotel. To return to the Dolphin Hotel means facing up to a shadow of the past. The prospect alone depresses. It has been all I could do these four years to rid myself of that chill, dim shadow. To return to the Dolphin Hotel is to give up all I'd quietly set aside during this time. Not that what I'd achieved is anything great, mind you. However you look at it, it's pretty much the stuff of tentative convenience. Okay, I'd done my best. Through some clever juggling I'd managed to forge a connection to reality, to build a new life based on token values. Was I now supposed to give it up?

But the whole thing started there. That much was undeniable. So the story had to start back there.

I rolled over in bed, stared at the ceiling, and let out a deep sigh. Oh give in, I thought. But the idea of giving in didn't take hold. It's out of your hands, kid. Whatever you may be thinking, you can't resist. The story's already decided.

2

I got sent to Hokkaido on assignment. As work goes, it wasn't terribly exciting, but I wasn't in a position to choose. And anyway, with the jobs that come my way, there's generally very little difference. For better or worse, the further from the midrange of things you go, the less relative qualities matter. The same holds for wavelengths: Pass a certain point and you can hardly tell which of two adjacent notes is higher in pitch, until finally you not only can't distinguish them, you can't hear them at all.

The assignment was a piece called "Good Eating in Hakodate" for a women's magazine. A photographer and I were to visit a few restaurants. I'd write the story up, he'd supply the photos, for a total of five pages. Well, somebody's got to write these things. And the same can be said for collecting garbage and shoveling snow. It doesn't matter whether you like it or not--a job's a job.

For three and a half years, I'd been making this kind of contribution to society. Shoveling snow. You know, cultural snow.

Due to some unavoidable circumstances, I had quit an office that a friend and I were running, and for half a year I did almost nothing. I didn't feel like doing anything. The previous autumn all sorts of things had happened in my life. I got divorced. A friend died, very mysteriously. A woman ran out on me, without a word. I met a strange man, found myself caught up in some extraordinary developments. And by the time everything was over, I was overwhelmed by a stillness deeper than anything I'd known. A devastating absence hovered about my apartment. I stayed shut-in for six months. I never went out during the day, except to make the absolute minimum purchases necessary to survive. I'd venture into the city with the first gray of dawn and walk the deserted streets, and when the streets started to fill with people, I holed up back indoors to sleep.

Toward evening, I'd rise, fix something to eat, feed the cat. Then I'd sit on the floor and methodically go over the things that had happened to me, trying to make sense of them. Rearrange the order of events, list up all possible alternatives, consider the right or wrong of what I'd done. This went on until the dawn, when I'd go out and wander the streets again.

For half a year that was my daily routine. From January through June 1979. I didn't read one book. I didn't open one newspaper. I didn't watch TV, didn't listen to the radio. Never saw anyone, never talked to anyone. I hardly even drank; I wasn't in a drinking frame of mind. I had no idea what was going on in the world, who'd become famous, who'd died, nothing. It wasn't that I stubbornly resisted information, I simply had no desire to know anything. Even so, I knew things were happening. The world didn't stop. I could feel it in my skin, even sitting alone in my apartment. Though little did it compel me to show interest. It was like a silent breath of air, breezing past me.

Sitting on the floor, I'd replay the past in my head. Funny, that's all I did, day after day after day for half a year, and I never tired of it. What I'd been through seemed so vast, with so many facets. Vast but real, very real, which was why the experience persisted in towering before me, like a monument lit up at night. And the thing was, it was a monument to me. I inspected the events from every possible angle. I'd been damaged, badly, I suppose. The damage was not petty. Blood had flowed, quietly. After a while some of the anguish went away, some surfaced only later. And yet my half year indoors was not spent in convalescence. Nor in autistic denial of the external world. I simply needed time to get back on my feet.

From Publishers Weekly

In this impressive sequel to A Wild Sheep Chase , Murakami displays his talent to brilliant effect. The unnamed narrator, a muddled freelance writer, is 34 and no closer to finding happiness than he was in the previous book. Divorced, bereaved and abandoned by his various lovers, he is drawn to the Dolphin Hotel--a strange and lonely establishment where Kiki, a woman he once lived with, "upped and vanished." Kiki and the Sheep Man, an odd fellow who wears a sheepskin and speaks in a toneless rush, visit the narrator in visions that lead him to two mysteries, one metaphysical (how to survive the unsurvivable) and the other physical (a call girl's murder). In his searchings, he encounters a clairvoyant 13-year-old, her misguided parents and a one-armed poet. All the hallmarks of Murakami's greatness are here: restless and sensitive characters, disturbing shifts into altered reality, silky smooth turns of phrase and a narrative with all the momentum of a roller coaster. If Mishima had ever learned the value of gentleness, this is the sort of page-turner he might have written. Paperback rights to Vintage.
Copyright 1993 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 1200 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 418 pages
  • Editeur : Vintage Digital; Édition : New Ed (10 octobre 2011)
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ASIN: B005TKC0V8
  • Synthèse vocale : Activée
  • X-Ray :
  • Word Wise: Activé
  • Composition améliorée: Activé
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 4.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (1 commentaire client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°91.556 dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 dans la Boutique Kindle)
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En savoir plus sur l'auteur

Photo © 2011 Iván Giménez - Tusquets Editores

Né en 1949 à Kyoto et élevé à Kobe, Haruki Murakami a étudié le théâtre et le cinéma, puis a dirigé un club de jazz à Tokyo, avant d'enseigner dans diverses universités aux États-Unis. En 1995, suite au tremblement de terre de Kobe et à l'attentat du métro de Tokyo, il décide de rentrer au Japon.

Plusieurs fois favori pour le prix Nobel de littérature, Haruki Murakami a reçu le prestigieux Yomiuri Prize, le prix Kafka 2006, le prix de Jérusalem de la Liberté de l'individu dans la société 2009 et le grand prix de Catalogne 2011.

Traducteur de Fitzgerald, Irving et Chandler, il rencontre le succès avec son premier livre, "Écoute le chant du vent" (1979, à paraître chez Belfond), qui lui vaut de remporter le prix Gunzo. Suivront, notamment, "La Ballade de l'impossible" (Seuil, 1994 ; rééd. Belfond, 2007, 2011 - adaptée au cinéma en 2011 par Tran Anh Hung), "L'éléphant s'évapore" (Seuil, 1998 ; rééd. Belfond, 2008), "Chroniques de l'oiseau à ressort" (Seuil, 2001 ; 10/18, 2014), "Au sud de la frontière, à l'ouest du soleil" (Belfond, 2002 ; 10/18, 2003), "Après le tremblement de terre" (10/18, 2002), "Les Amants du Spoutnik" (Belfond, 2003 ; 10/18, 2004), "Kafka sur le rivage" (Belfond, 2006 ; 10/118, 2007), "Le Passage de la nuit" (Belfond, 2007 ; 10/18, 2008), L'éléphant s'évapore (Belfond, 2008 ; 10/18, 2009), "Saules aveugles, femme endormie" (Belfond, 2008 ; 10/18, 2010), "Autoportrait de l'auteur en coureur de fond" (Belfond, 2009 ; 10/18, 2011), "Sommeil" (Belfond, 2010 ; 10/18, 2011), "1Q84 - Livres 1, 2 & 3" (Belfond, 2011, 2012 ; 10/18, 2012), "Les Attaques de la boulangerie" (Belfond, 2012 ; 10/18, 2013) et "Underground" (Belfond, 2013 ; 10/18, 2014).

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4.0 étoiles sur 5 vraiment plaisant a lire 25 mai 2001
Format:Broché
Ce livre merite vraiment qu on le lise. Dans le Japon des annees 80, l histoire fantasmagorique, pleine d un humour perspicace et ironique d un modeste redacteur pour journeaux feminins en quete d un souvenir, d une vision... Plein de rebondissements et de personnages attachants ce conte des temps modernes reussit a nous tenir a bout de souffle pendant toute sa lecture.
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Amazon.com: 4.3 étoiles sur 5  174 commentaires
50 internautes sur 54 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Dancing through hyperspace 27 septembre 2001
Par Yaumo Gaucho - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
A sheep-man sits in a hotel room and operates a switchboard connecting the lonely, drifting narrator to a web of unforgottable individuals. The sheep-man's room is full of books about, well, sheep, and the narrator mostly experiences reality with the aid of his thirteen-year-old sort-of girlfriend. Logs of days spent "lolling" on the beach, wonderful descriptions of pizza, allusions to Boy George and the Talking Heads, and the sense of frantically trying to escape something (or is it find something?) all combine to make a novel that is not plotted, but choreographed.
Dance Dance Dance is electrifying, captivating, and intense -- and it's pretty brainy too, much like Murakami's characters. The narrator's perspective is standard Murakami: the slightly dreamy, out-of-place 30ish man trying to reason with a world that seems stranger by the minute. Assumptions constantly fall, and no one is sure what or whom to believe.
Yet the strange-goings on are the only thing rescuing the narrator from the miasma of ennui that comes from having rejected the dream of being a "salaryman" with a family and a linear, predictable lifestyle. This is a novel about staring out into the unknown -- and staring deeply into that unknown, it seems Murakami is saying, is the only way to find meaning if we reject the traditional lives that have been prearranged for us.
The only slightly negative thing I can say about this novel is that the plot and the characters have uncanny similarities to those in The Wind Up Bird Chronicle. It almost seems as if Murakami had one outline of a novel, which could go two different ways, and made one into the Wind Up Bird Chronicle, and the other into this book. The narrator's voice, and many of the supporting characters, are exactly the same, as are several plot elements.
Overall, this is significant, and highly enjoyable literature. It manages to ask deep questions about reality, fate, relationships, family, and life, while still packing the thrills of something much more pulpish.
27 internautes sur 28 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 My First Murakami Experience 12 septembre 2005
Par Matthew Marko - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
I picked up Murakami on a whim. I had been exploring Japanese literature, but my preferences were for the ancient works. Yet, something about it spoke to me. Maybe it was the wild title, maybe it was the synopsis, maybe it was fate.

What I found was a strange, surreal noir. At heart, it's a detective story. The search for a long-lost love (so cliche that it becomes subversive and the subplots seem to take center stage) in a place out of memory that isn't what it seems. The narrator wanders through a dreamland of wild experiences pulled from Murakami's imagined reality that just drips with an old-school sensibility. It almost seems perfect for a 30's or 40's era noir film, pulpy and beautiful.

What I liked most about it was how empty it all felt. His narrator is a loner, and the world that was built emphasized this. It just seems a lonely book, and all the characters seem motivated by loneliness. It's a great atmospheric, not overly dramatic but understated in the dry humor in the piece.

What seems most interesting is how the narrators various threads of story all eventually come back to the main plot, which becomes muddled throughout the tale. It all comes back to point out the interconnectedness of people, the power of consequence and luck in determining destiny, and a kind of grand design where it all seems to work out without any reason why (even when working out isn't the best option). It's not deus ex machina, it's how real life seems to work, and Murakami captures that chaotic purpose beautifully.

I've gone on to read other Murakami, but this one stands out in my mind, being the first. It's a sequel to a book I'm not sure I want to read, but it's complete on its own. I don't want to know about the narrator's previous adventures, that's how good this book is at telling this man's story. A wonderful tale, highly recommended.
40 internautes sur 45 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Murakami's Unsurpassed Best Novel 27 septembre 2002
Par Un client - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
Far superior to its successor, the Wind Up Bird Chronicle, this book wonderfully concludes the story of a protagonist started with "Hear The Wind Sing," "Pinball 1973," and "A Wild Sheep Chase." In this book, the protagonist, a self-employed loner who lives outside the "normal" conventions of the Japanese salaryman and society, sets out on a quest to find his girlfriend from "A Wild Sheep Chase." (For those who have not read "A Wild Sheep Chase," I will not ruin for you the circumstances that set this off). For the first few chapters, the protagonist is alone, walking the streets of Hokkaido, sitting in bars by himself and "contemplating the ashtray" (there must be tons of loners out there who can appreciate this) until eventually clues, both supernatural and other, take him to Tokyo and Hawaii, and introduce a slew of unforgettable, well written, deep characters. Such characters include Yuki, the troubled 13 year old psychic who is far superior to the undeveloped clone of May Kasahara in the Wind Up Bird Chronicle, the actor Gotanda, who can portray your life better than you can, the unforgettable detectives Bookish and Fisherman...the list goes on and on. What this book is, basically, is the fulfillment of the personal quest. It is a book that will be best appreciated by people who have been loners, stand removed from the "norms" of society of a wife, a 9 to 5 job in an impersonal office, two kids, a pet, and perhaps even a dedication to any particular religion, and have, as such, culivated a deep level of observation, a bit of an alienation to and from society, and perhaps a personal subconscious inkling/longing for a supernatural happenstance such as The Dolphin Hotel that make up for a lack of belief in any conventional religious notion accepted by the masses...
8 internautes sur 8 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Even Better than Wild Sheep Chase! 25 septembre 2007
Par K. Martin - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
I know "A Wild Sheep Chase" (WSC) is a revered Murakami book and that "Dance, Dance, Dance" (DDD) is widely regarded as not in the same league as WSC, or the "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle" or "Kafka on the Shore" but I thought DDD a much better book than WSC, superior also to "South of the Border, West of the Sun" and "Sputnik Sweetheart" and "Norwegian Wood" and up there with "Kafka on the Shore" though falling a bit short of "Wind-Up Bird" which is still Murakami's masterpiece I'd say. As far as DDD, the homage to Raymond Chandler is obvious and much appreciated. If Philip Marlow had grown up in Japan, listened to a lot of 60's classic rock (as well as the classical music Marlow fancied) and also liked swimming, cooking, housekeeping, and post-modern irony and metaphysics, then bang--you'd have the anonymous narrator of DDD! The beauty of this book is in the laconic, ironic, satirical, yet also compassionate, decent, and kind narrator. Those are tough qualities to combine, and Murakami pulls it off. The anonymous narrator, much like Chandler's Philip Marlowe, is a guy you'd love to hang out with. He's funny, laid back, honest, and basically a decent guy. He can admit his faults and while he's a little self-centered, he'd own up to that fault in a hurry, and compensates for it by being very patient and very loyal to his friends and fair to his enemies. He doesn't hate, doesn't want what he doesn't have, doesn't aspire to be famous or rich, doesn't hold grudges, and can see the world from the other guy's perspective. I would argue it is the essential likeableness of Murakami's narrators that makes him so readable. And the narrator of DDD is one of the most endearing of all of them, I would argue.

As others have noted, I don't think the plot is the reason you read Murakami, so I'm not going to go into that much. Suffice it to say it will keep you turning the pages to find out what happens to them all and the ending doesn't disappoint. But it's for the style, the tone, the questions he raises, the way he makes you look at your life from a whole new angle that you read Murakami and why you should read DDD. Of course, the re-appearance of the Sheep Man in DDD is just a joy difficult to describe. Has anyone else noticed that there is a reference to Siberia (and how awful it is) in almost every Murakami book? Along with swimming, cats, and parallel universes, Siberia is another recurring Murakami theme, though one seemingly less noticed. It's brief, but there in DDD...

Murakami seems to write two different novels: straight up love triangles (if there is such a thing) like "Norwegian Wood", "South of the Border...", and "Sputnik Sweetheart", or metaphysical detective stories like "Wild Sheep Chase," "Hardboiled Wonderland..." "Dance, Dance, Dance", "Wind-up Bird Chronicle" and "Kafka on the Shore". I've noticed some reviewers like the love stories more, some like the detective stories more, and some, like me, enjoy them both. I think "Wind-up Bird..." is the best liked of all Murakami novels because it is kind of the best of both worlds, mainly detective story, but also love triangle with a parallel universe, all melded into an interesting and enjoyable single narrative. "Kafka.." comes close to doing the same thing, but not as smoothly. I think "Dance, Dance, Dance" integrates a compelling love triangle with a solid metaphysical detective story. So if you like Murakami, don't skip "Dance, Dance, Dance," just because it doesn't usually get the raves the other books get...
7 internautes sur 7 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Enjoyable Book -- But Heavily Abridged in English Translation 12 juin 2006
Par Roman Melnik - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
There are already a number of helpful substantive reviews of this novel, and I will not repeat that discussion here.

But what the previous reviews do not make clear is that the English translation of "Dance, Dance, Dance" significantly abridges the original Japanese text. The casual reader would have no way of knowing this, because the only reference to this fact is the cryptic notation on the copyright page that the novel was not only translated but also "adapted" from the Japanese.

How much of the Japanese text was "adapted" away? My rough estimate is that something like 20% of the original has been cut. While I have not done a detailed study of what has been deleted and what has been retained, a few spot comparisons show a rather troubling and cavalier editorial approach that retains the broad strokes of the novel's structure but tramples much of Murakami's carefully-developed texture.

Anyway, the upshot is that if you can comfortably do so, try to read "Dance, Dance, Dance" in a non-English unabridged translation. If you can't, the novel is still worth reading in English -- but you are getting a bit of a Cliff Notes version of the original.
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