It’s going to be a monster. Murakami has admitted that it’s long, longer even than the dreaded Kafka on the Shore.
Somehow (oh, I know how, but I haven’t the guts necessary to actually type my reasonings) this particular statement really rubbed me the wrong way. Enough so to make me roll my eyes heavenward and wonder out loud why I submit myself to the inane musings of the pseudo-literati. (Ohhh, major Simpson's flash there...)
But then, I should probably admit to these literary-giant wannabe's that I have never found Murakami to be particularly daunting. No, really in the 10+ years I've been reading him, his stories have never presented me with any obstacles. But, BUT, (for me) his stories have always been about a very simple subject presented in a far from obtuse way, i.e. what it is to be human and, as such, to come to terms with the innate need to willingly suffer humanity. Having read every bit of his published fiction (yes, even those not "officially" published in english) I cannot help but believe that the man writes to this singular (if not broad) theme, namely: "Who am I?"(along with all the inherent natterings that invariably follow that, at times life altering and at times life confirming, question).
--> deep breath <--
*shakes head* But never fear. This is really just the wild musings that come from a fan-girl venting. Honestly. What appears to be toxic words spewing forth is, in fact, little more than some harmless baking soda and vinegar induced froth, and I've no real intention of allowing the scientific experiment that is my mental state to run the risk of "accidentally" putting anyone's eye out (though making an ewwey, gooey mess for someone else to have clean up might make me feel a little better).
Rather, I think that I shall follow what had been my intention when I first awoke, before I found myself sucked into the gently chiming welcome of a glowing computer. That is, to get myself a glass of water and crawl back to bed. *smiles*
Good night, good night. May you never have to suffer the fate of having your literary heroes nit-picked by the english major brigade. It hurts.
Yours with love,
J. Washington Irving, C.C.L.