In a post on July 06, 2010, I had written about Haruki Murakami - 'All I can say is that I'm glad I found him.' Over three and a half years later, here I am, as hooked as I was then. My longest real commitment aside from this has been my marriage! I am addicted to his writing and the way his mind works. After much holding back from sounding cliched and then realizing that I'm already saying these things in my head, here goes - 'It's like he is in there. He moves seamlessly with my mind like a Boccherini minuet and it is exquisite to be so aware of every subtle trip and twirl of my imagination, guided by that incredibly intelligent whisper of a voice. Fluid like a river, like smooth jazz. A voice meant only for me.'
A voice with a million little modulations, open to interpretation, nudging one into caprice. I've read six of his books, more are on the way, and I have now reconciled myself to this having become something of an obsession. My only solace is that he has not been unmanageably prolific, and considering how much of myself I put into reading each one, I doubt that I'll be going back to many of them. My latest - 'South of the Border, West of the Sun'. A bit of a love story, and not as non-linear or magically surreal as some of the others, but beautiful, nonetheless. He writes like his thoughts need no translation, like they brook no interruptions, like they don't need to be written down at all. There is no middle ground with writing like that. It gets into my head, and stays there interminably. I'm not even sure what stays, exactly. He can write about anything, for all I care. Material-wise, it may be inconsistent, sometimes sublime and at other times, leaning toward postmodern lyrical tomfoolery. I don't care. I've truly forgotten how to read anything else. Forgotten how to listen for other voices in books, and it bothers me. So I've been trying hard to mix it up. Arguably, I have a type. I was actually surprised that I liked Julian Barnes' - I didn't expect to. I expected that I would love Alice Munro - she kept me interested, but didn't pull me in. Been reading the 'bestsellers' and the 'prize winners' that show up in most lists - easy reading for most part, not sure why some books get the awards and some don't. I consider them distractions. 'Dance Dance Dance' is on its way.
A voice with a million little modulations, open to interpretation, nudging one into caprice. I've read six of his books, more are on the way, and I have now reconciled myself to this having become something of an obsession. My only solace is that he has not been unmanageably prolific, and considering how much of myself I put into reading each one, I doubt that I'll be going back to many of them. My latest - 'South of the Border, West of the Sun'. A bit of a love story, and not as non-linear or magically surreal as some of the others, but beautiful, nonetheless. He writes like his thoughts need no translation, like they brook no interruptions, like they don't need to be written down at all. There is no middle ground with writing like that. It gets into my head, and stays there interminably. I'm not even sure what stays, exactly. He can write about anything, for all I care. Material-wise, it may be inconsistent, sometimes sublime and at other times, leaning toward postmodern lyrical tomfoolery. I don't care. I've truly forgotten how to read anything else. Forgotten how to listen for other voices in books, and it bothers me. So I've been trying hard to mix it up. Arguably, I have a type. I was actually surprised that I liked Julian Barnes' - I didn't expect to. I expected that I would love Alice Munro - she kept me interested, but didn't pull me in. Been reading the 'bestsellers' and the 'prize winners' that show up in most lists - easy reading for most part, not sure why some books get the awards and some don't. I consider them distractions. 'Dance Dance Dance' is on its way.
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