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Haruki Murakami (author), Jay Rubin (translator), Absolutely on Music: Conversations with Seiji Ozawa, Alfred A. Knopf, 2016. 352 pgs.

When we look back on our life’s work and accomplishments, what will we remember? This is the lingering question at the heart of Absolutely on Music: Conversations with Seiji Ozawa, a thought-provoking and deeply personal dialogue between Seiji Ozawa—one of the most revered conductors of our time, who passed away in 2024 at the age of 88—and acclaimed writer Haruki Murakami. The book, transcribed from six recorded conversations during Ozawa’s recuperation from surgery for oesophageal cancer, is an intimate exploration of music, artistry, and the lifelong pursuit of magical excellence.

Although the book focuses “absolutely on music,” Murakami’s narrative influence is unmistakable. A devoted music enthusiast rather than a musician himself, Murakami takes on the role of maestro in these conversations, guiding Ozawa through his memories and work, often surprising him with recordings he had long forgotten. Their discussions span Ozawa’s early days studying under Maestro Herbert von Karajan, Leonard Bernstein (as his favourite assistant conductor of the New York Philharmonic), his tenure as music director of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra’s Ravinia Festival and the Toronto Symphony Orchestra, the founding of the Saito Kinen Orchestra, and his three-decade leadership of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, where he transformed it into a world-class ensemble.

For those unfamiliar with the world of classical music, these names might seem distant, even intimidating. Yet Murakami and Ozawa’s conversations are candid, humorous, and accessible, making the book an enjoyable read even for those who have never played an instrument or studied a symphony. There is an undeniable warmth in their exchanges as they share tea and rice balls while dissecting the nuances of performances and the emotional depths of compositions.

In one particularly compelling conversation, Murakami draws a connection between writing and conducting, noting that Maestro Karajan’s approach to phrasing in music mirrors the rhythms and cadences found in storytelling. To Murakami, a writer must have an ear for language just as a musician must have an ear for sound—both require a keen sense of flow, timing, and emotion to create something truly resonant. A writing teacher once told me that writing a good story is like listening to a good song: all the elements are there at the beginning, they build off each other, layer by layer, reaching a climax and then a subsequent resolution. To understand music in terms of storytelling—how all the members of an orchestra train, learn, and are guided by one maestro, one “author”—is revelatory to me.

The book also delves into Ozawa’s journey as a Japanese conductor in the Western classical music world—a pioneering feat in the 1960s and 1970s, when critics and audiences alike could not fathom how an Easterner could achieve a deep and emotional understanding of Western music. Despite language barriers and cultural differences, Ozawa mastered his craft under the rigorous training of Professor Hideo Saito in Japan before refining his technique under Karajan and Bernstein. He speaks candidly about the challenges he faced and the resilience it took to succeed in an industry that had never seen an Easterner at its helm. One striking moment comes when Ozawa recalls his experience conducting opera in Milan, where he was met with boos—a humbling and formative moment in his career. Yet, rather than becoming discouraged, he conducted to the best of his ability, in the way he wanted to, and over time won the Italian audiences over with his interpretation of Tosca.                                                                         

Mixing of East and West is perhaps something Murakami himself can relate to. His literary influences—from Raymond Carver to F. Scott Fitzgerald—are distinctly Western, and he has famously drafted some of his work in English first, not in spite of his limited English vocabulary but because of it, before translating it back into Japanese. Limitations are often a catalyst for creativity. When discussing learning the composition of the opera Wozzeck by Alban Berg, Ozawa recalls studying the score and believing he understood it fully, only to realise during rehearsals that playing exactly as it was written did not do the music justice. A deeper understanding—an interplay with the orchestra—was required to truly bring the piece to life. While Ozawa discusses the Japanese concept of ma—a gap, a pause, or, in music, a breath—something written into some Western scores but understandably takes musicians years to master properly, and reflects on how the cultural inclination not to stand out or speak up might hinder Asian musicians’ performances, I did, however, long for a more in-depth analysis of the cultural exchange that shapes music.

Ozawa has much to say about Gustav Mahler, whose compositions profoundly shaped his approach to conducting with age and experience. As he states, “In the case of Mahler, the important thing is not so much to learn it as to immerse yourself in it.” Before he looked at a Mahler score, he had no idea such a piece of work could exist. As Leonard Bernstein’s assistant conductor in New York, he witnessed firsthand how Bernstein tirelessly worked to bring Mahler to the masses. While Mahler’s compositions might appear complex in their orchestration, their essential folk-song musicality is simple enough to hear. “If you read it closely and deeply, with feeling, it’s not such confusing and inscrutable music after all. It’s got all these layers piled on top of one another and lots of different elements emerging at the same time, so in effect, it sounds complicated.” This sentiment echoes throughout the book, emphasising the depth and dedication required to truly inhabit a piece of music and share in its magical splendour.

The most moving part of this book comes in the sixth and final conversation, when Ozawa invites Murakami to observe him at work at the Seiji Ozawa International Academy in Switzerland. Murakami carefully observes how a group of students transforms within one week, breathing life into music through collaboration and discipline. Something magical happens at this academy—some deceptively simple tweaks suggested by teachers, including Robert Mann and Ozawa himself, gradually get the musicians to begin listening and communicating with each other, producing a coherent voice shaped by the conductor’s vision. This theme—of music as a living, evolving conversation between musicians, composers, and audiences that touches the hearts of all alike—permeates the book.

Reading Absolutely on Music is akin to sitting in on a conversation between two old friends who share an immense love and respect for their crafts. For Murakami, music is not just background noise—it is an essential, structured art form, much like writing. His ability to frame music in literary terms offers readers an accessible entry point into the world of conducting international orchestras, while Ozawa’s insights reveal the intricacies of interpretation, leadership, and lifelong learning.

Ultimately, Absolutely on Music is a celebration of artistry in all its forms. Whether you are a lifelong devotee of classical music or a casual listener, this book reminds us of the power of passion, the joy of discovery, and the profound impact of devoting oneself fully to a craft. Music, as Ozawa notes, is “an art that occurs through time.” From an energetic hotshot on the scene to a wise conductor of world acclaim, Ozawa’s approach to conducting changed—and so did his music. But one thing that held firm, even as an older man looking back nostalgically on his past, was his passion for something he loved with all his being and wanted to share with the world. That passion sustained Ozawa’s career and legacy. Murakami wished for this book to be enjoyed by people who truly love music—and, in typical Murakami fashion, it succeeds harmoniously.

How to cite: Yang, Antonia. “A Symphony of Words and Sound—Haruki Murakami’s Absolutely on Music: Conversations with Seiji Ozawa.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 23 Feb. 2025, chajournal.blog/2025/02/23/absolutely-music.

Antonia Yang is a Chinese-American writer born in New Orleans, raised in Handan, China, by her grandparents, and later grew up in Boston, MA. She graduated from Northwestern University in 2014 with a Bachelor of Arts in film and applied mathematics. Her writing has been supported by the Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing, GrubStreet, Tin House, the Massachusetts Cultural Council, and the Vermont Studio Center. Antonia enjoys writing about the intersections, movements, and changes between generations, cultures, and disciplines. When she is not writing, she enjoys going to the cinema, travelling, and spending time with her 13-year-old cockapoo. She’s on Instagram: @antonstingly119.