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Standing in the M's of the fiction section, I wondered if Haruki Murakami would be over my head. I don't remember if it was something I read or if it was just a silly assumption of mine that someone famous for writing a book called Kafka on the Shore would be chanelling the Kafka of Metamorphosis.
To this day, I still can't forgive Franz for forcing me to read about an overgrown cochroach who had enough sense to commit suicide, but not enough balls to get it over with in fewer chapters . So it was with great trepidation that I purchased Norwegian Wood on a whim earlier this year. Likened by some (maligned by others) to a crossover album that brings an unkown indie act to the masses, Norwegian Wood was the best possible place I could have hoped to start my Murakami journey. My fear of not being able to relate, or of not being able to comprehend, evaporated within pages. In fact, the first few pages reverberated so deeply that I had to put the thing down, fearing the story could not sustain that level of brilliant clarity and beauty for much longer and would be destined to dissapoint me. I sat with the closed book in my lap and thought to myself, if I stop here, this will have been the most amazing short story I have ever read.
I stared down at the book and felt like crying. Murakami had struck a nerve and I had to keep going. I had to know how the story ends. That day, I read the best short story ever when I finished that first chapter. Later, I read the best novella ever when I finished the first section of the book. When I was all done, it turns out that I had my favorite book ever resting in my hands.
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| | Posted 11/20/2008 11:38 AM - 27 Views - 0 eProps - 0 comments
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