Sonata in D Major-Kafka On The Shore

I’m currently reading Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami--a book about a teenage boy who runs away from his abusive father.

In one of the chapters, the main character Kafka Tamura is driving with a librarian he meets on his runaway named Oshina. In this particular scene, Oshina is driving with Kafka to a remote cottage as the dusk settles in with Schubert’s sonata in D major playing softly in the background.

(Oshina) “‘If you play Schubert’s sonatas straight through, it's not art… It’s too long and too pastoral… Which is why every pianist who attempts it adds something of his own… That’s why I like to listen to Schubert when I’m driving. As I said, it’s because all the performances are imperfect. A dense, artistic imperfection stimulates your consciousness, keeps you alert. If I listen to an utterly perfect piece while I’m driving, I might want to close my eyes and die right then and there. But listening to the D major, I can feel the limits of what humans are capable of--that a certain type of perfection can only be realized through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect. And personally, I find that encouraging.’” (Murakami, 119)

What Oshina said here stood out to me and reminded me of an obvious yet easy message to forget.

Society has somehow convinced many of us that to thrive in this world you need to endlessly polish yourself--to be optimistic, sociable, agreeable. Many of these messages aren’t inherently destructive; most actually initiate change, motivation, and a good amount of positivity. But too much of the same thing can start becoming unhealthy and toxic. These messages can sometimes accumulate to create an environment that encourages us to hide away our imperfections, making it hard to reach and shameful.

But if we ask ourselves again about what makes something beautiful, we realize how much we actually love imperfections. Which painting would you prefer? A perfectly symmetrical painting, with the perfect color-blending, perfect shapes, portraying models with perfect smiles OR a painting made with a clash of contradicting colors and brush strokes where the main subject has a tilted frown--a hint of misery hidden in his eyes--a story hidden underneath?

Most people would choose the latter--there’s something enticing in the distortion of the subject’s face, something so unique but also so familiar. With each rough edge, odd color combination, and blown-up shape, the painter seems to wring out a certain tragedy, an extreme thought or emotional debris that we see in ourselves.

The imperfect sides of us become strongly attracted towards the imperfect sides of others--it’s "encouraging", just as Oshina describes. We always, either unconsciously or consciously, gravitate towards these small imperfect fragments in the midst of a world drowned in the messages of the American Dream, success, happiness, self-development, self-transcendence.

We like the slanted smile on our partners; the way a dimple forms on only one side of our baby’s cheeks; the way that our friends crack out a high-pitched, snorting laughter. We like reading about flawed characters who fall short in front of challenges, make mistakes, have complications (Frodo in The Lord of The Rings would be a prime example). We like going to museums to see the complex, fallen nature of humanity morphed into art.

We gravitate towards these things because they resemble us--it mirrors our scars, flaws, hurtful past or hurtful present. Those that appear too “perfect” may just as well be a statue to be admired from afar--not someone you would be comfortable to approach for a genuine conversation.

Sure, happiness and being “successful” sounds ideal; but would that necessarily make you more unique or more interesting?

Oshina says at some point to Kafka, “There’s only one kind of happiness, but misfortune comes in all shapes and sizes. It’s as Tolstoy said: happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story" (Murakami, 169)

He’s saying that our struggles and flaws make us a worthwhile story, something attractive and luring. It’s not necessarily our perfect routines or perfect outfits that make us unique; it’s our personal losses, fights with mental health, our eccentric and weird taste in music, our odd dents.

So, my main question is: if we appreciate these imperfections in other people and crave for such stories, what is holding us back from accepting the fact that others will most probably also admire our own imperfections? Why do we still shy away from talking about our struggles, our flaws, and our state of utter confusion? Why do we necessarily have to think that a tragic event destroys us when we could instead look at it as something that makes us alluring? Why is it so hard for us to embrace our losses and our flaws?

It’s something to think about because the truth seems apparent yet acting on it seems impossible.

References:

Kafka On the Shore. 1st American ed. New York: Alfred A. Knopf : Distributed by Random House, 2005.

Sonata In D Major: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QoDBg29ctAA