In this book, Murakami tries to draw a connection between the rigors of marathon and the hard truth about writing novels, but in the process fails to draw a convincing comparison (or parallelism) between the two.
The prose is uninspired to say the least, plus the text leaves so much to be desired, it behooves one to think how Murakami has come to be known as a global bestseller to begin with. Almost throughout the book, the manner with which ideas flow doesn't stick; instead the book drifts away in forgettable nostalgia and incessant rambling that doesn't go anywhere specific.
By the time the whole thing is over, one is hardpressed to consider the immense amount of time pored over for something that was disjointed and lifeless.
Which is not to say Murakami's memoir isn't worth reading at all. The thing about What I Talk About When I Talk About Running is that it is an attempt at rationalizing what is otherwise seen as a mundane activity for many.
In this regard, Murakami is fairly successful in humanizing the exercise, plus he scores points in reconciling running with the joys, pains, and exhilerations that naturally come with it.
But it stops there. Sadly, everything beyond this is just plain inconsequential.