Saturday, October 22, 2016

The wind-up bird chronicle



Currently dwelling into another Murakami's well. Too deep and dark I almost lost myself.

Apparently logic has penetrated deep into my deepest veins that along the pages I keep questioning the same question: why am I reading this? Murakami has been quite successful in bringing up those things and stuff I (didn't know that I) don't want to read such as human-skinning process and self-torturing. No, just no.

The usual Murakami topics such as existence, solitude and confusion are also equally irritating. Those used to be my favourites, a meta-part of me was always crave for them. Yet I find myself having a hard time to actually understand or even to have a little sympathy for the characters. Maybe Murakami is way  too god-like in this one, there is hardly a way for the characters too freely find themselves.

Or.. is it my ventures into Adult world that has swayed me from being.. me?

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