The wind-up bird is the most prominent symbol in novel, and it represents the possibility that free will is an illusion. The wind-up bird is a bird in Toru’s neighborhood that makes a mechanical squawk. Toru’s wife, Kumiko, gives the bird its nickname, and also speculates that the bird winds the spring of the world. By this, she means that the bird’s squawk is akin to winding a wind-up toy—it is the action that sets the world into motion. Here, Kumiko expresses a broader philosophical concept that is at the novel’s core: free will. Wind-up toys have no free will. They can only act when a more powerful force exerts its will upon them, and their actions are predetermined. Through the symbol of the wind-up bird, the novel questions whether humans are merely like wind-up toys—that is, whether people can control their destiny, or whether there’s a more powerful force in their lives that drives everything in the universe toward a predetermined outcome.
Throughout the novel, Toru worries that he does not have any control over his life, and he starts to believe that forces he does not understand are sending him along a journey, which he must go on whether he likes it or not. Early in the novel, Toru gives himself the nickname “Mr. Wind-Up Bird”; he is not sure why, but his choice shows how fixated he is on the matter of free will, which the bird represents. In addition, there are times throughout the novel when Toru hears the wind-up bird regularly and times when he does not. The periods when Toru does not hear the wind-up bird are the moments when he feels most in control of his life. Meanwhile, the times when he does hear the wind-up bird are when he feels least in control. The link between Toru’s sense of personal agency and the call of the wind-up bird reinforces the novel’s focus on free will, highlighting the possibility—and perhaps even the probability—that free will is just an illusion.
The Wind-Up Bird Quotes in The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
There was a small stand of trees nearby, and from it you could hear the mechanical cry of a bird that sounded as if it were winding a spring. We called it the wind-up bird. Kumiko gave it the name. We didn’t know what it was really called or what it looked like, but that didn’t bother the wind-up bird. Every day it would come to the stand of trees in our neighborhood and wind the spring of our quiet little world.
You know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, just about the whole time you were down in the well, I was out here sunbathing. I was watching the garden of the vacant house, and baking myself, and thinking about you in the well, that you were starving and moving closer to death little by little. I was the only one who knew you were down there and couldn't get out. And when I thought about that, I had this incredibly clear sense of what you were feeling: the pain and anxiety and fear. Do you see what I mean? By doing that, I was able to get sooo close to you! I really wasn't gonna let you die. This is true. Really. But I wanted to keep going. Right down to the wire. Right down to where you would start to fall apart and be scared out of your mind and you couldn’t take it anymore. I really felt that that would be the best thing—for me and for you.
Whether by chance conjunction or not, the ‘wind-up bird’ was a powerful presence in Cinnamon’s story. The cry of this bird was audible only to certain special people, who were guided by it toward inescapable ruin.
I brought to mind the sculpture that had stood in the garden of the abandoned Miyawaki house. In order to obliterate my presence here, I made myself one with that image of a bird. There, in the sun-drenched summer garden, I was the sculpture of a bird, frozen in space, glaring at the sky.