Men Without Women

There's a common thread running through what little Murakami I've read; or perhaps better said, a common thread not-running: Connection. His characters all seem to go through the motions of living, but entirely in a cargo-cult way. They talk, drink, fuck, sometimes even laugh, but it's all hollow. Emotionless. There's no love of any kind, no real communication or listening or feeling. Is that the point? Is Murakami satirizing the rat race? Highlighting the uniqueness of our one life and the quickness with which we turn our back on it? That's the other thing about Murakami: I'm not really smart enough to get him.