"I think Lizzy misses Japan," my wife said.
"I do too," I replied, "although I've never been there."
Back in December I read in Opinion Journal a profile of the author
Haruki Murakami. His novels sounded interesting: "talking cats and monsters that lurk underground" and on a whim I ordered his best-seller
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. I don't generally read fiction, but this one drew me in, as much for its detailed descriptions of everyday life as for its surrealistic characters and psychological drama. Time flows differently in Murakami's stories, and different things matter.
Nakata had passed away calmly in his sleep, most likely not thinking of anything. His face was peaceful, with no signs of suffering, regret, or confusion. Very Nakaga-like, Hoshino concluded. But what his life had really meant, Hoshino had no idea. Not that anybody's life had more clear-cut meaning to it. What's really important for people, what really has dignity, is how they die. Compared to that, he thought, how you lived doesn't amount to much. Still, how you live determines how you die. These thoughts ran through his head as he stared at the face of the dead old man.
When I finished The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle I needed more, so I ordered
Kafka on the Shore. Midway through it I thought, this will be enough. But having finished it two days ago I'm still hungry. So I've ordered
The Elephant Vanishes, a collection of short stories, and
Underground: The Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche, his only (so far) work of non-fiction.
Blogging may be light for a while.