I am a big fan of the Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami. I have devoured each of his books, and now they sit prominently on my bookshelf, close at hand, in case I need inspiration. His characters inhabit flamboyant and imaginative worlds, such as “Killing Commendatore,” wherein a figure in a painting slips off the canvas and influences the destiny of its painter.

But the power of his novels does not rest solely upon these fanciful constructions. Rather, his novels allow for psychologically subtle maneuverings by the characters. The reader must pay close attention to these characters’ thoughts and observations, and the quiet way in which the novel’s complex structure evokes some unconscious shift within the reader themself. Total absorption sneaks up on you as the pages are turned.

But how does he hold it all together? This question has plagued me for some time, as Murakami takes such great liberties with the construction of his novels. How does he keep all his narrative balls in the air?

Like any good juggler knows, the tricky movements with the hands start with the feet. The juggler must be well-grounded. With a firm foundation, so much more is possible. Murakami is in the literary Cirque de Soleil.

Murakami employs a simple strategy to lay down this foundation. It is a source of inspiration for me. With what I assume is great delight, he devotes careful attention to both what his characters are wearing and what they are eating. Generally, it is nothing out of the ordinary. But he makes a point of describing each of these characters’ appearances, and then he lets those characters linger around the kitchen. He allows them the time to eat, as the poetic, dreamlike world comes to life around them. Even when the characters are most consumed with the events of the narrative, Murakami still makes certain that they eat.

Explicating these common gestures allows the reader to feel as if Murakami has firmly planted his story in consensus reality. The more imaginative that you want to get on the page, the more closely you must observe the quotidian. It is entirely possible for a painting to come to life — as long as the reader knows that the painter just had a hard-boiled egg for breakfast.