Haruki Murakami’s new novel, The City and Its Uncertain Walls, features an imaginary world that is both intricate and baffling: A parallel universe contains a walled city, which contains a library, which contains orbs that contain people’s dreams. Exploring them is an unnamed, middle-aged narrator accompanied by a teenage girl whom he somehow met decades ago. Moving back and forth between this universe and mundane reality, he begins to wonder which version of himself is the real one—the “Dream Reader” or the bored employee of a Tokyo book distributor. For Murakami’s millions of readers, this confounding premise will sound familiar, even exciting, especially because the new book shares many elements with his first major novel, the confidently weird and exciting Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. Both stories could serve as metaphors for the beguiling, febrile experience of reading Murakami’s best fiction. As his new narrator puts it: “Lots of questions, but no clear-cut answers. The meaning of it all totally eluded me. Many mysterious doors before me, but no key that fit. What I could understand (or faintly perceive) was that there was an extraordinary, special power at work.”

The narrator is describing his lonely, searching life but also evoking and drawing on the allure of the Murakami-verse, a body of work that feels both labyrinthine and accessible. In this balance lies the bravura, idiosyncratic source of Murakami’s popularity. Like Hemingway’s simple sentences, this style is harder than it looks to achieve; also like Hemingway, Murakami doesn’t always pull it off.

The 75-year-old writer’s novels and stories, which are marked by a distinct combination of strange happenings and plainspoken feelings, have been translated into more than 50 languages. This new novel, his first release in the United States in six years, was his native Japan’s best-selling book for six months in 2023, “beating out a guidebook for the latest Pokemon game on Nintendo Switch,” according to The Japan Times. At the same time, Murakami commands close attention from critics and scholars, and most Octobers, his name comes up in Nobel Prize predictions. His new novel, however, rests on this blend of high and broad appeal without, in the end, either justifying or deepening it. Only the already initiated are allowed entry into the walled-in city of Murakami’s imagination; the rest are left to wander about, casualties of what reads a lot like presumption, if not self-satisfaction.

The City and Its Uncertain Walls begins, promisingly, like a fable: The narrator speaks directly to the young woman, remembering their teenage romance with lyric clarity, as conveyed by the longtime Murakami translator Philip Gabriel: “On that summer evening we were heading up the river, the sweet fragrance of grass wafting over us … You’d stuck your flat red sandals in your yellow plastic shoulder bag and were walking from one sandbank to the next, just ahead of me. Wet blades of grass were pasted to your wet calves, wonderful green punctuation marks.” The young woman had told him at the time about a distant town: “The real me lives there, in that town surrounded by a wall.”

Were this a story from the Middle Ages, we’d recognize this as a message-bearing allegory: We reserve our most private and truest self for people who prove worthy; often, they must undertake a difficult journey to reach us. The narrator, as a young man, begins visiting this town, where time never passes, in chapters that contrast with his stale school and family life in “the real world.” With gratitude and wonder, he marvels that he and his girlfriend are able to “create and share a special, secret world of our own.” That said, something both basic and profound separates them (although Murakami never really accounts for it): The narrator retains a single identity and consciousness across both worlds, whereas the unnamed girlfriend splits in two—the real-world version, who knows about the city, and the one who lives there and seems to be unaware of the other reality.

The IRL girlfriend disappears suddenly from the narrator’s (real) life, cutting off his access to the walled-in city. Some 20 years later, all grown up into a standard Murakami man—listless, shy, introspective—he drudges through his day job in Tokyo, his existence enlivened only by memories of that more vivid world. At melancholic loose ends, he leaves the capital to work as a librarian in a remote village. There, he meets a chatty old man. With his subtle guidance, the narrator finds his way back to the walled-in city, where he reencounters his girlfriend, who is still a teenager—and who has no memory of him. No matter; he’s largely pleased just to be there, spending time with her, sipping tea, and reading the orb-shaped dreams housed in the city’s library.

[Read: Where my characters come from]

There are clear parallels between this library and its real-world equivalent in the village, but what does it mean to read a dream rather than a book? The narrator holds an orb for “about five minutes,” feels a warm glow, and “then the dreams would begin to spin their way into me, hesitantly, at first, like a silkworm emitting a thread, then with more enthusiasm. They had something they needed to relate.” This act of dream-reading both enlarges his life and frees the dreams from their shelves. We are again in the realm of allegory: This is what happens when readers and books come together. Murakami offers variations on this theme throughout the novel. Some readers may feel flattered and affirmed by the analogy, ensorcelled by the Murakami-verse. Others may want him to do more with the story itself—for instance, to describe more of those library dreams instead of mostly just rhapsodizing over the experience of handling them.

Some genuine drama develops back in the village. The narrator befriends a quietly intense boy who spends his days reading in the (real-world) library. The boy shows the narrator an unnervingly accurate map of the other place; we learn that he “found a way to get to the walled-in town (though I had no idea how).” After the boy disappears into that world, his brothers ask the narrator for help: Does he have the boy’s map? He says no. “This was a lie,” he tells us. “The map was in a drawer back in my house. But I didn’t feel like showing it to them.”

The brothers are eager to recover the boy. To the narrator, however (and perhaps to Murakami), they are banal workaday types who want to trap the boy in a reality where he’s treated like a misfit. Wouldn’t it be better, the narrator thinks, for the boy to explore dreams and meet unicorns? And—to extend the now-too-obvious allegory—isn’t it the heroic work of writers to bestow imagined worlds on readers, especially those who struggle in the rest of their life? This is an attractive idea, though morally unsettling—especially in the novel. The narrator is withholding information from a family seeking a lost child. Murakami, for his part, is withholding context—without knowing more about the city’s strange dreams, the reader must take it on faith that they justify abandoning reality. And the narrator isn’t unreliable or even conflicted: You read fruitlessly in hopes of sussing out as much. Murakami doesn’t only gloss over ethical questions; he lets the subplot of the missing boy recede, and leaves unexplored the implications of submitting so completely to the power of stories.

The novel’s action instead moves on to yet more sweet-toned labors in the dream library, with a pointed shout-out to Gabriel García Márquez along the way. The narrator calls the author’s work “ordinary” rather than “magical” realism, because “in the world he inhabits the real and the unreal coexist and he just describes the scenes the way he sees them.” This is clearly Murakami explaining, if not defending, his own method: a kind of imaginative liberation from the conventional coherences of novels that just reflect and ratify the stifling world as it is.

But as heretical as this might be to say about a Murakami novel, I simply wanted this one to make more sense—in terms of plot, character, ideas, and world-building—and to do so on its own terms instead of depending on buttressing from other works, whether those by Márquez or by Murakami himself. Yes, longtime fans will fill in the gaps, especially given the many explicit connections to Hard-Boiled Wonderland (which also features a dream reader in a mysterious library, albeit with a day job at a data factory). And beyond the dream eggs and Murakami-brand Easter eggs, less devoted readers will nevertheless recognize, perhaps too readily, patterns that recur across his many other books: parallel worlds and competing realities, ordinary people on a quest to find a loved one, mysterious guides with unclear motives, symbolically significant libraries, objectifying descriptions of women’s bodies.

Maybe as a sign of his own misgivings about the novel’s stand-alone status, Murakami includes an afterword in which he discusses its origins in a 1980 short story, which was also the source material for Hard-Boiled Wonderland; its gestation as he evolved from a jazz-café proprietor into a globally famous novelist; and, finally, its pandemic-era revival and completion.

All of this is interesting if you’re keen to be let in on a famous writer’s story-making secrets at a late stage in his career—but alas, it’s not much more. Because what really drives most of us to stay with a big and difficult novel is our desire to figure out what’s happening, in higher-order ways if not merely on a literal level, so that our ideas about stories, or the world, or ourselves, or, ideally, all of that, are changed. Murakami’s best books magnificently bend these questions into weird and exhilarating shapes. This new one soft-boils them.

Just after college, I went to teach English as a Peace Corps volunteer in a small village school in West Africa. To help relieve the loneliness, I packed a shortwave radio, a Sony Walkman, and, among other books, a paperback copy of Thomas Mann’s very long novel The Magic Mountain. As soon as I set foot in Togo, something began to change. My pulse kept racing; my mouth went dry and prickly; dizzy spells came on. I developed a dread of the hot silence of the midday hours, and an awareness of each moment of time as a vehicle for mental pain. It might have helped if I’d known that my weekly antimalarial medicine could have disturbing effects, especially on dreams (mine were frighteningly vivid), or if someone had mentioned the words anxiety and depression to me. At 22, I was a psychological innocent. Without the comfort of a diagnosis, I experienced these changes as a terrifying void of meaning in the universe. I had never noticed the void before, because I had never been moved to ask the questions Who am I? What is life for? Now I couldn’t seem to escape them, and I received no answers from an empty sky.

I might have lost my mind if not for The Magic Mountain. By luck or fate, the novel—which was published 100 years ago, in November 1924—seemed to tell a story a little like mine, set not in the West African rainforest but in the Swiss Alps. Hans Castorp, a 23-year-old German engineer, leaves the “flatlands” for a three-week visit to his cousin Joachim, a tuberculosis patient who is taking the cure in one of the high-altitude sanatoriums that flourished in Europe before the First World War. Hans Castorp (Mann’s detached and amused, yet sympathetic, narrator always refers to the protagonist by his full name) is “a perfectly ordinary, if engaging young man,” a slightly comical young bourgeois.

Arriving on the mountain, he immediately loses his bearings. In the thin air, his face goes hot and his body cold; his heart pounds, and his favorite cigar tastes like cardboard. His sense of time becomes warped. Many of the patients spend years “up here.” No one speaks or thinks in terms of days. “ ‘Home in three weeks,’ that’s a notion from down below,” his ailing cousin warns. Hans Castorp’s companions at the sanatorium’s five lavish daily meals are a cosmopolitan and macabre gallery of mostly young people who fill the endless hours gossiping, flirting, quarreling, philosophizing, and waiting to recover or die. The proximity of death is unsettling; it’s also funny (when the roads are blocked by snow, corpses are sent flying down the mountain on bobsleds) and strangely alluring.

[From the January 1953 issue: Thomas Mann on the Making of The Magic Mountain]

When Hans Castorp catches a cold, the sanatorium’s director examines him and finds a “moist spot” on one of his lungs. That and a slight fever suggest tuberculosis, requiring him to remain for an indeterminate time. Both diagnosis and treatment are dubious, but they thrill Hans Castorp: This hermetic world has begun to cast a spell on him and provoke questions “about the meaning and purpose of life” that he’d never asked down in the flatlands. Answered at first with “hollow silence,” they demand extended contemplation that’s possible only on the magic mountain.

The director’s assistant, trained in psychoanalysis, explains in one of his biweekly lectures that sickness is “merely transformed love,” the body’s response to repressed desire. Fever is the mark of eros; the decay of a diseased body signifies life itself. Mann had ventured onto this terrain before. In his novella Death in Venice (1912), the famous writer Gustav von Aschenbach, infatuated with a Polish boy at his hotel, stays in the plague-ridden city while other visitors flee. Hans Castorp stays too, obsessed with his own temperature chart, and with the entrancing Clavdia Chauchat, a young tubercular Russian with “Kirghiz eyes,” bad posture, and a habit of letting the dining-room door slam behind her. Almost half the novel goes by before Hans Castorp—who has by now been on the mountain for seven months—talks with Clavdia, just as she’s about to depart. On the night before she leaves, he makes one of the most bizarre declarations of love in literature: “Let me take in the exhalation of your pores and brush the down—oh, my human image made of water and protein, destined for the contours of the grave, let me perish, my lips against yours!” Clavdia leaves Hans Castorp with a framed X-ray of her tubercular lung.

I fell under the spell of Hans Castorp’s quest story, as the Everyman hero is transformed by his explorations of time, illness, sciences and séances, politics and religion and music. The climactic chapter, “Snow,” felt as though it were addressed to me. Hans Castorp, lost in a snowstorm, falls asleep and then awakens from a mesmerizing and monstrous dream with an insight toward which the entire story has led him: “For the sake of goodness and love, man shall grant death no dominion over his thoughts.”

Hans Castorp remains on the mountain for seven years—a mystical number. The Magic Mountain is an odyssey confined to one place, a novel of ideas like no other, and a masterpiece of literary modernism. Mann analyzes the nature of time philosophically and also conveys the feeling of its passage, slowing down his narrative in some spots to take in “the entire world of ideas”—a day can fill 100 pages—and elsewhere omitting years. Reading this dense yet miraculously seductive book becomes an experience like Hans Castorp’s interlude on the mountain. As I made my way through the novel by kerosene lamplight, I took Mann’s bildungsroman as a guide to my own education among the farmers, teachers, children, and market women who became my closest companions, hoping to find myself on a journey toward enlightenment as rich and meaningful as its hero’s. That was asking too much of even great literature; afraid of my own suicidal thoughts, I went home before the end of my two years. But on a few particularly dark nights, The Magic Mountain probably saved my life.

I recently returned to The Magic Mountain, without the intense identification of the first time (you have to be young for a book to inspire that), but with a larger sense that, a century later, Mann has something important to tell us as a civilization. The Mann who began writing the novel was an aristocrat of art, hostile to democracy—a reactionary aesthete. Working on The Magic Mountain was a transformative experience, turning him—as it turned his protagonist—into a humanist. What Hans Castorp arrives at, lost and asleep in the snow, “is the idea of the human being,” Mann later wrote, “the conception of a future humanity that has passed through and survived the profoundest knowledge of disease and death.” In our age of brutal wars, authoritarian politics, cultures of contempt, and technology that promises to replace us with machines, what is left of the idea of the human being? What can it mean to be a humanist?

Mann conceived of The Magic Mountain in 1912, when he was 37, after a three-week visit to a sanatorium in Davos where his wife, Katia, was a patient. “It was meant as a humorous companion-piece to Death in Venice and was to be about the same length: a sort of satire on the tragedy just finished,” he later wrote. He soon discovered that his story resisted the confines of a comic novella. But before he could realize its possibilities, World War I broke out, in August 1914. With Hans Castorp still in his first week at the sanatorium, Mann abandoned the manuscript as Europe plunged into unprecedented destruction. In a letter to a friend in the summer of 1915, he left a clue as to where things stood with his unfinished novel: “On the whole the story inclines towards sympathy with death.” And he now saw an ending—the war itself.

Mann published no fiction for the duration of the war. Instead, he became a very public defender of imperial Germany against its adversaries. For Mann, the Great War was more than a contest among rival European powers or a patriotic cause. It was a struggle between “civilization” and “culture”—between the rational, politicized civilization of the West and Germany’s deeper culture of art, soul, and “genius,” which Mann associated with the irrational in human nature: sex, aggression, mythical belief. The kaiser’s Germany—strong in arms, rich in music and philosophy, politically authoritarian—embodied Mann’s ideal. The Western powers “want to make us happy,” he wrote in the fall of 1914—that is, to turn Germany into a liberal democracy. Mann was more drawn to death’s mystery and profundity than to reason and progress, which he considered facile values. This sympathy wasn’t simply a fascination with human evil—with a death instinct—but an attraction to a deeper freedom, a more intense form of life than parliaments and pamphleteering offered.

Mann scorned the notion of the writer as political activist. The artist should remain apart from politics and society, he believed, free to represent the deep and contradictory truths of reality rather than using art as a means to advance a particular view. In his wartime nonfiction writing, he mocked “civilization’s literary man,” a self-important poseur who takes sides on public issues and signs petitions. Mann was aiming at his brother Heinrich, a novelist and an essayist of nearly equal renown, whose liberal politics led him to support Germany’s enemies, France and Britain. The brothers exchanged indirect but caustic volleys in print, and their fraternal dispute became so bitter that they didn’t speak for seven years.

Before setting aside The Magic Mountain, Mann had created a version of this writer figure in a character named Lodovico Settembrini, another patient at the sanatorium, who is an irascible and hyper-articulate advocate for all things progressive: reason, liberty, virtue, health, the active life, social improvement. He declares music, the most emotionally overpowering of the arts, “politically suspect.” Mann at his most satiric has Settembrini contributing an essay to a multivolume project whose purpose is to end suffering. In short, Settembrini, like Heinrich, is a “humanist”—but in Mann’s usage, the term has an ironic sound. As he wrote elsewhere, it implies “a repugnant shallowness and castration of the concept of humanity,” pushed by “the politician, the humanitarian revolutionary and radical literary man, who is a demagogue in the grand style, namely a flatterer of mankind.”

Settembrini becomes a philosophical tutor to Hans Castorp, who listens with respectful interest but resists the liberal catechism. He responds more powerfully to the erotic allure of Clavdia Chauchat, the careless door slammer, who believes in “abandoning oneself to danger, to whatever can harm us, destroy us.” Yet Settembrini also has the wisdom to warn our hero against the seductions of the sanatorium, which separates young people from the society “down there,” infecting them with lassitude and rendering them incapable of ordinary life. As an artist above politics, Mann didn’t want simply to criticize “civilization’s literary man,” but to show him as “equally right and wrong.” He intended to create an intellectual opponent to Settembrini in a conservative Protestant character named Pastor Bunge—but the war intruded.

Mann spent the war years making his case for the German soul, steeped in the “passion” of Wagner and “manliness” of Nietzsche, amid a global catastrophe that remained bloodlessly abstract to him at his desk in Munich. He published his wartime writings in the genre-defying Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man in October 1918, one month before the armistice. Katia Mann later wrote, “In the course of writing the book, Thomas Mann gradually freed himself from the ideas which had held sway over him … He wrote Reflections in all sincerity and, in doing so, ended by getting over what he had advocated in the book.”

When Mann unpacked the four-year-old manuscript of The Magic Mountain in the spring of 1919, the novel and its creator were poised to undergo a metamorphosis. The war that had just ended enlarged the novel’s theme into “a worldwide festival of death”; the devastation, he would go on to write in the book’s last pages, was “the thunderbolt that bursts open the magic mountain and rudely sets its entranced sleeper outside the gates,” soon to become a German soldier. It also confronted Mann himself with a new world to which he had to respond.

[From the January 1953 issue: Thomas Mann on the making of The Magic Mountain]

Defeated Germany was in a state of revolution. In Munich, demobilized soldiers, right-wing paramilitaries, and Communist militants fought in the streets, while leaders of the new Weimar Republic were routinely assassinated. A local war veteran named Adolf Hitler began to electrify crowds in cramped halls with speeches denouncing the “traitors”—republican politicians, leftists, Jews—who had stabbed Germany in the back. The National Socialist German Workers’ Party was born in Munich; Hitler’s attempted coup in November 1923, known as the Beer Hall Putsch, took place less than two miles from the Mann house.

Some German conservatives, in their hatred of the Weimar Republic and the Treaty of Versailles, embraced right-wing mass politics. Mann, nearing 50, vacillated, hoping to salvage the old conservatism from the new extremism. In early 1922, he and Heinrich reconciled, and, as Mann later wrote, he began “to accept the European-democratic religion of humanity within my moral horizon, which so far had been bounded solely by late German romanticism, by Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Wagner.” In April of that year, in a review of a German translation of Walt Whitman’s selected poetry and prose, he associated the American poet’s mystical notion of democracy with “the same thing that we in our old-fashioned way call ‘humanity’ … I am convinced there is no more urgent task for Germany today than to fill out this word, which has been debased into a hollow shell.”

The key event of Mann’s conversion came in June, when ultranationalists in Berlin murdered his friend Walther Rathenau, the Weimar Republic’s Jewish foreign minister. Shocked into taking a political stand, Mann turned a birthday speech in honor of the Nobel Prize–winning author Gerhart Hauptmann into a stirring call for democracy. To the amazement of his audience and the German press, Mann ended with the cry “Long live the republic!”

Mann the novelist had meanwhile returned to The Magic Mountain, and his work on it took a swerve in the same crucial year of 1922. His hero would have to struggle with the political battle that had beset Mann during the war. Abandoning Pastor Bunge as outmoded, he created a new counterpart to Settembrini who casts a sinister shadow over the second half of the novel: an ugly, charismatic, and (of course) tubercular Jesuit of Jewish origin named Leo Naphta. The intellectual combat between him and Settembrini—which ends physically, in a duel—provides some of the most dazzling passages in The Magic Mountain.

Just when you want to give up on their high-level dialectics, one of them, usually Naphta, says something that shocks you into a new way of thinking. Naphta is neither conservative nor liberal. Against capitalist modernity, whose godless greed and moral vacuity he hates with a sulfurous rage, Naphta offers a synthesis of medieval Catholicism and the new ideology of communism. Both place “anonymous and communal” authority over the individual, and both are intent on saving humanity from Settembrini’s soft, rational humanism. Hans Castorp calls Naphta “a revolutionary of reaction.” At times sounding like a fanatical parody of the Mann of Reflections, Naphta argues that love of freedom and pleasure is weaker than the desire to obey. “The mystery and precept of our age is not liberation and development of the ego,” he says. “What our age needs, what it demands, what it will create for itself, is—terror.” Mann understood the appeal of totalitarianism early on.

It’s Naphta, a truly demonic figure—not Settembrini, the voice of reason—who precipitates the end of the hero’s romance with death. His jarring arrival allows Hans Castorp to loosen himself from its grip and begin a journey toward—what? Not toward Settembrini’s international republic of letters, and not back toward his simple bourgeois life down in the flatlands. The answer comes 300 pages before the novel’s end, when Hans Castorp puts on a new pair of skis and sets out for a few hours of exercise that lead him into the fateful blizzard and “a very enchanting, very dreadful dream.”

In it, he encounters a landscape of human beings in all their kindness and beauty, and all their hideous evil. “I know everything about humankind,” he thinks, still dreaming, and he resolves to reject both Settembrini and Naphta—or rather, to reject the stark choice between life and death, illness and health, recognizing that “man is the master of contradictions, they occur through him, and so he is more noble than they.” During his years on the mountain, he’s become one of death’s intimates, and his initiation into its mysteries has immeasurably deepened his understanding of life—but he won’t let death rule his thoughts. He won’t let reason either, which seems weak and paltry before the power of destruction. “Love stands opposed to death,” he dreams; “it alone, and not reason, is stronger than death.”

The Magic Mountain makes no clear political statement. The novel remains true to Mann’s belief that art must include everything, allowing life its complexity and ambiguity. But the vision of “love” that Hans Castorp embraces just before waking up is “brotherly love”—the bond that unites all human beings. The creation of this novel, which won Mann international fame, is “a tale of two Thomas Manns,” in the words of Morten Høi Jensen, a Danish critic whose The Master of Contradictions: Thomas Mann and the Making of “The Magic Mountain” is due to be published next year. The Mann of wartime could not have written the sentence that awakens Hans Castorp from his dream.

[From the October 1944 issue: Thomas Mann’s “In My Defense”]

Mann now recognized political freedom as necessary to ensure the freedom of art, and he became a sworn enemy of the Nazis. A Nobel Prize winner in exile, he emerged as the preeminent German spokesman against Hitler who, in lectures across the United States in 1938, warned Americans of the rising threat to democracy, which for him was inseparable from humanism: “We must define democracy as that form of government and of society which is inspired above every other with the feeling and consciousness of the dignity of man.”

He was speaking at a moment when the dignity of man was locked up in Nazi concentration camps, liquidated in Soviet show trials, buried under piles of corpses. Yet Mann urged his audiences to resist the temptation to deride humanity. “Despite so much ridiculous depravity, we cannot forget the great and the honorable in man,” he said, “which manifest themselves as art and science, as passion for truth, creation of beauty, and the idea of justice.”

Could anyone utter these lofty words today without courting a chorus of snickers, a social-media immolation? We live in an age of human self-contempt. We’re hardly surprised when our leaders debase themselves with vile behavior and lies, when combatants desecrate the bodies of their enemies, when free people humiliate themselves under the spell of a megalomaniacal fraud. It takes a constant effort not to accept this as normal. We might even feel, without acknowledging it to ourselves, that we deserve it: After all, we’re human, the lowest of the low.

In driving our democracy into hatred, chaos, and violence we, too, grant death dominion over our thoughts. We succumb to the impulse to escape our humanness. That urge, ubiquitous today, thrives in the utopian schemes of technologists who want to upload our minds into computers; in the pessimism of radical environmentalists who want us to disappear from the Earth in order to save it; in the longing of apocalyptic believers for godly retribution and cleansing; in the daily sense of inadequacy, of shame and sin, that makes us disappear into our devices.

The need for political reconstruction, in this country and around the world, is as obvious as it was in Thomas Mann’s time. But Mann also knew that, to withstand our attraction to death, a decent society has to be built on a foundation deeper than politics: the belief that, somewhere between matter and divinity, we human beings, made of water, protein, and love, share a common destiny.

This article appears in the December 2024 print edition with the headline “The Magic Mountain Saved My Life.”