I love Haruki Murakami’s writing. All of it. That would have once made me part of the in-crowd, but not so much these days. I sense a shift among critics about Murakami. The reviews are getting that little bit less adoring than they used to be, and it feels as if it’s becoming safe and fashionable for some reason to knock him. Not so much a volte face, but certainly the beginnings of a shift. It’s hard to know what’s changed. Yes, he can be repetitive, long-winded, and inconsistent, and he has glaring weaknesses such as the depiction of women in his writing, but that’s been the case for many years.

I’ve always admired his short stories especially, so I was eager to read his latest collection of eight tales, First Person Singular. I expected to enjoy it, and I did very much. Having said that, I admit the flaws that infuriate his critics are here in abundance and this is not by any means Murakami on top form. And yet there are passages of lovely writing and that unique, unmistakable voice.

Now in his early 70s, Murakami seems preoccupied here by time passing, by aging and mortality, and by the strange unreliability of memory. Murakami Man in First Person Singular is as puzzled and confounded by life’s big questions as he always was, and remains consoled by the same small comforts; music, mainly jazz and classical, baseball, and reading. Women, as before, seem to beguile and confuse him – failing to show up when they should, confronting him aggressively without warning, committing crimes, or even killing themselves without explanation. First Person Singular is familiar Murakami but never vintage Murakami.