This book was published the year I was born.
I have an odd thing with numbers, so I suspect this is played a part in starting this new project to read through Murakami’s ouvre.
Like any other freshman work, you see both the talent and a lack of polish. This contrast is particularly highlighted when you compare it against the silky smooth introduction written in 2014, thirty five years into his career.
The book is quirky novella, where the protagonist does stuff and ends up more or less where he was, except he isn’t exactly the same. Which vaguely aligns with my memory of the other Murakami novels that I read a decade ago.
While reading the book, I got the sensation I may have read it before. I know that I downloaded a PDF of an english translation during my first Murakami kick, but I generally hate reading books online. I remember borrowing it from the library a couple years ago – though I don’t actually remember reading the book.
Then again, I can’t tell you anything about his other novels that I’ve read, aside from the covers of the five novels we transported from Houston to Las Vegas.
Hell, it’s only been a week since I finished this novel and I honestly can’t tell you what is the plot of this one either.
But goddamn. His writing, even as a freshman.
It had been a long time since I felt the fragrance of summer: the scent of the ocean, a distant train whistle, the touch of a girl’s skin, the lemony perfume of her hair, the evening wind, faint glimmers of hope, summer dreams.
But none of these were the way they once had been; they were all somehow off, as if copied with tracing paper that kept slipping out of place.
p. 89