Yet another Murakami book finished and for once it did not take me several months to devour.
It did, however, demand to be read only in public, so it was: Every page turned happened at cafes and on benches in busy afternoons. Not a single word was read from home.
Finishing a Murakami book is bound to leave you feeling empty, and not entirely who you were when you set out to read the book. I mean, you look in the mirror and you do see yourself, but that self, looking back, is not quite what it used to be; Something has changed and you’re not sure if your ears have changed shape or perhaps the motivation for their existence has altered: perhaps they will tell you what to do next or maybe they will be silent for a very long time, while plotting their next step and your possible demise, instead of simply being things on the sides of your head , there to help you hear better.
What I’m trying to say (I think it’s me trying anyway, who knows, maybe it’s my ears after all, speaking through me) is that this is definitely a book worth reading in my opinion. While reading it I experienced the desires to throw everything I own away, to travel on random trains and stop for sandwiches and coffee until moving on, to a different place with a different train, perhaps leading to new people, perhaps leading to sheep – depending on the direction.
Now that the book is read and the words have been absorbed,, it is time to decide what to do. What to read next. What I need to throw away to downsize my life.
My coffee is getting cold.
– Until next time