Spent the entire day with Murakami. Just didn't want to speak to anyone on the net or through the phone.
Fell asleep on my bed with The Wind-up Bird Chronicle in my palm. I received it as a gift last year and only got down to reading it yesterday. I can't even remember who bought it for me! Vong and Ms Neo?
After reading certain authors' works I tend to feel really lost. Murakami, Gaiman, Patricia Mckillips, Diana Wynne Jones, amongst others. I don't think I'm really a whimsical person, but at times I feel like I can relate more with those complex, strange, mentally unsound characters in these stories more than I can other characters. They feel more real.
What's real, though? Do you think about what's real, and what's not? Do you think about who you are as a person, what're the real parts and what are the fake ones? As May Kasahara says in The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, "
I don't know how to put it, but it's as if by not
thinking about myself I can get closer to the core of my self."
Does everyone have a core? Or are we all made up of small little bits which we chose and picked from everyone around us, in order to piece together a coherent being?
At times like these I think about the person whom I could talk about all these things to, but he's far, far away now.
Labels: haruki murakami, novels, of reading, the windup bird chronicle, traveling through pages
