Killing Commendatore by Haruki Murakami
My rating: 1 of 5 stars

I don't know if I'm capable of giving Killing Commendatore a review that is sufficiently scathing. The action consists mainly of repetitious motionless sexual affairs. The narrator is obsessed with breasts and a pre-pubescent girl. The 700 page flat plot is full of holes, goes on forever, with nothing happening and has little to zero resolution. There is meant to be an "ahah!" at the end, but I saw it coming for a few hundred pages. Bleh. I get that this is supposed to be a surrealistic novel but the characters are are beyond unbelievable. They are bland ambiguous strangers with mysterious requests.
If this were Murakami's first novel, I believe it would have a hard time finding a publisher. His earlier novels drew high praise, but the success of this is reminiscent of The Emperor's New Clothes. The author doesn't seem to care what people think of him and his mental masturbation isn't treating his readers with respect. He is certainly creative but may be morally bankrupt. The book bored and irritated me to no end.

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