This book feels heavy on my desk, all pages now gently flipped through, every last word devoured.
The book should feel empty for me now that I have finished it. I mean, when I finished reading Kafka on the Shore, I felt a great loss, like I was mourning a dear friend whom I had lost by turning the last page. But finishing The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle has left me with a feeling entirely different. Like I am no done with the book yet, or rather; that the book is not yet done with me.
It is the beginning of an avalanche of words and thoughts in my head, tumbling down hills, hitting hikers who so desperately try to reach the top, despite the fact that it is impossible for them.
Who knows when this book will let go of me. I have a feeling it will be a while before it does.