If the way Toru Okada’s search for Kumiko keeps slipping into the uncanny—down the dry well, into hotel rooms charged with strange currents, through Malta and Creta Kano’s occult guidance—hooked you, you’ll love the off-kilter plunge of The Third Policeman. A nameless narrator wanders into a rural police station where logic buckles (bicycles may be part-human; physics is folklore), much like how Noboru Wataya’s shadowy influence warps reality in Murakami’s world. It’s the same deadpan, surreal drift from ordinary errands to a subterranean realm where meaning is unstable and haunting.

Drawn to Toru’s understated sleuthing—taking phone calls meant for someone else, tailing threads that lead from neighborhood cats to Noboru Wataya’s power plays? In City of Glass, writer-turned-detective Daniel Quinn answers a misdialed call and tumbles into an investigation that unravels his sense of self, much as Toru’s hunt for Kumiko dissolves into questions about who he is beneath the surface calm. The stalking, notebooks, and city wandering echo Toru’s patient legwork, but the case opens onto a deeper void that will feel eerily familiar.

If Lieutenant Mamiya’s Manchurian war memoirs and Creta Kano’s confessional episodes enthralled you—those nested accounts that throw Toru’s present into new relief—The Blind Assassin delivers that same layered revelation. Iris Chase’s autobiography folds in newspaper clippings and a pulp sci‑fi tale told by illicit lovers, each strand reinterpreting the others the way Mamiya’s scarred past illuminates the violence coiled around Noboru Wataya. The result is a hypnotic mosaic of memory, secrecy, and the stories we tell to survive.

If you connected with Toru Okada’s calm, inward gaze as he’s drawn deeper into a strange, enclosing world—spending hours at the bottom of a well, letting May Kasahara’s letters and visits alter his course—The Woman in the Dunes channels that same psychological pressure. An entomologist is lured to a village and forced to shovel sand alongside a mysterious woman, his identity slowly reshaped by ritual and confinement. Like Toru’s quiet resolve against Noboru Wataya’s invisible grip, the struggle here is internal, existential, and hauntingly intimate.

If the slow accretion of clues in Toru’s days—cat searches, chance meetings with May Kasahara, war stories that echo forward—was your pace, A Tale for the Time Being invites the same meditative drift. A writer on an island finds a washed‑ashore diary from a Tokyo teen; reading it, she uncovers threads of trauma, Zen practice, and fate that converge across oceans and time, much like how Toru’s seemingly minor errands open into the deeper mystery of Kumiko and Noboru Wataya. It’s a gentle, resonant slow burn with big emotional payoffs.