I was wrong about Murakami. I underestimated him, misunderstood him and failed to do him justice. I went into the maze of Kafka on the Shore expecting to find something hidden in the centre – and then grew annoyed when there was no real middle, just a winding path to a different exit. And because I was so intent on looking for something that wasn’t there, I couldn’t properly appreciate the beautiful topiary, the cleverness of the paths and the various acts of misdirection.

I know that now. A week or so after my initial reading, and after a series of fascinating threads here on the Reading group, I realise that even if I couldn’t find that dense centre of the novel, there are all kinds of other interesting layers to enjoy. As Reading group contributor TheOrbys put it: “I am getting something of a feeling that petal by petal Murakami’s book is opening up a bit. There is more method and interacting layers than I’d thought, or been able to decipher by myself.”

There’s plenty I didn’t get first time around about Shinto, about solipsism and imagining what happens in other people’s heads, and about facing up to death. I’ve also changed my mind slightly on a few of the more technical aspects of the writing that I thought weren’t working. In my first article, I complained about what I saw as over-explanation and unsubtle hints about the wider meaning of the novel. I now think that many of these instances can be viewed as part of an amusing riff on the wider nature of the book. Murakami may have a character explain the plot of Oedipus Rex, and engage in a clumsy reflection on how this story has parallels in the protagonist’s life. But such laborious details don’t bring anyone any closer to the final resolution. They are brightly illuminated signposts – but the joke is that for all their wattage, they still don’t point you anywhere in particular. As in life, there are no final destinations, no clear answers.

I’m still not wholly satisfied. I don’t think I’m ever going to understand this book properly. I’m not even sure that such a thing is possible. But I am now prepared to admit that on its own terms, it’s really quite interesting. I also understand that tackling Kafka on the Shore as an introduction to Murakami was possibly a mistake. I’ve since read Norwegian Wood, and it’s opened quite a few doors into Murakami’s world. Superficially, that novel is far more straightforward. There’s less of the whimsy-pimsy, the magic and fantasy. It tells (effectively on the whole, give or take some one-handed typing about the sexuality of the female characters) a story about coming to terms with death, finding a way into adulthood and feeling lost within your own head. In other words, a very similar story to Kafka on the Shore, and one that helps explain many of the ideas within the later novel. It has a very interesting alternative take on the boundary between life and death, for instance, and clarifies some of the ideas in Kafka on the Shore about this liminal zone.

So, I can see that Murakami is a writer whose novels should not be read in isolation. I feel more sympathetic towards him, having delved a little deeper into what he is trying to do. I also feel more sympathetic because I picked up What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Murakami’s account of his life as a long-distance runner, and how this has fed into his career as a novelist. It is one of the best books about sport I have read. I can forgive its author almost anything. The account of his attempt to run from Athens to the village of Marathon in the blistering heat of August, “dying of thirst” but lacking the strength to drink water, is one of the most vivid and impressive accounts of physical endurance I’ve read – and made all the sweeter by a touching account at the end of this epic struggle of the kindness of a local in Marathon who snipped him some flowers from a potted plant and told him “you did a good job”.

But I also loved this book because I felt it spoke to me directly. “There are things that only runners understand and share,” says Murakami, and certainly I felt I knew what he was talking about because I spend plenty of my own time pounding the pavements.

“A gentleman shouldn’t go on about how he keeps fit. At least that’s how I see it,” says Murakami early on. That’s how I see it too, and I’m almost embarrassed to talk about it here, except that it helps explain why I felt such companionship with the author. He writes wonderfully about enjoying running. It’s a pleasure that sometimes seems baffling, out in the cold and rain, tired and miles from home. It’s one plenty of other people see as no more sensible than repeatedly stubbing your toes. But it’s also full of triumph and joy. Murakami skilfully evokes the sense of achievement, the satisfaction of feeling your legs responding well and the private, solitary pleasure of just being out there and running:

As I run I tell myself to think of a river. And clouds. But essentially I’m not thinking of a thing. All I do is keep on running in my own cosy homemade void, my own nostalgic silence. And this is a pretty wonderful thing. No matter what anybody else says.”

Yes.

Murakami runs farther and more often than I do, but he still made me feel kinship. He writes especially well about why this is a sport that you can enjoy without ever feeling that you are particularly good at it. Murakami is happy to admit that he is a fairly mediocre runner, at least when it comes to running fast times. I am too – and like him, I really don’t mind. My current target is to run 10k in under 45 minutes. For some reason it always eludes me by a matter of seconds, and I’m becoming increasingly desperate to beat it. I worry that as I get older, it will get ever harder.

But here too, Murakami is full of warm and wise advice. Because, as much as it as about running, this turns into a book about aging. “For me – and for everybody else, probably,” he writes early on in the book (and don’t you just love that “probably”?) “this is my first experience of growing old and the emotions I’m having too, are all first-time feelings.” He catalogues these feelings with beautiful clarity and honesty. He doesn’t flinch from physical decline, but he also makes it clear why he’s damn well carrying on, anyway: “The amount I can exercise is going downhill, as is the efficiency of the whole process, but what’re you going to do?”

Few things I’ve read have moved me as deeply as Murakami’s sad acceptance of his slowing pace, coupled with his determination to run just as much, all the same. I’d even say that What I Talk About When I Talk About Running shows us all a way to face up to the future. It is affirming and inspirational. As soon as I finished it, I signed up for a new race and I’m sure thousands of other readers must have done the same. I also suspect that like me they also must have started seriously thinking about how to go further, for longer, and keep doing so for years to come. And it’s not just that either. If money and time weren’t objects, I’d right now be trying to find out where Murakami is running his next marathon. He writes about the way he races with such humility and with such tenderness for the people who cheer for him and other racers along the way, that I’d love to go and give him an encouraging clap myself. I have, in short, been converted. I have become another one of his millions of fans.