Letters are nothing but a piece of paper. Despite you burn them, the memories that have remained will still remain; despite you keep them, that what has vanished, vanishes.
It seems to me I can no longer make the difference between one and the other, between the things that have existed and the things that have not existed.
Wednesdays seem to be my blue days. For some time now almost every Wednesday happens so that I end up in melancholy. Emotionally restless. Reminiscent. Nostalgic with some pain. Thinking about the past over and over again, recalling faces and events, looking into the future with fear.
Now I can bind the upper words with the reason why I came to write here. HARUKI MURAKAMI. Japanese writer. Today I have started to read the third book bearing his name on the covers. South of the Border, West of the Sun. This month I have also noticed Murakami has been given the Franz Kafka Prize in Prague. I have discovered the words of Haruki Murakami last year. Since then I have been his fan. Well, I read him in Slovenian only; I have not search for English translations so far. But I happened to see a Japanese movie Toni Takitani featuring Murakami's script. And for all of those who know my new play: yes, Murakami too has influenced my writing.
The first Murakami's book I have ever read is Norveški gozd, Norwegian Wood (Noruei no mori). Lots of Murakami's work is influenced with music strongly; he owned a jazz bar. Norwegian Wood too is inspired with the Beatles's famous song. Though that wood in Murakami's case refers more to a forest (mori). The book caught my intention immediately. A story of love and discovering sexsuality, a story of loss and confusion. The main character is Toru Watanabe, a drama student living in Tokyo. The whole novel is actually told as his reminiscence. I still see the images strongly... like, for instance, the peaceful sanatorium near Kyoto where Toru travels to visit emotionally troubled Naoko... the flat of Midori, Toru's second love... the weak firefly he releases from the jar in Tokyo... finally, his overall softness and confusion.
I feel Murakami's writing as a tender poetry. Intimate poetry. Inner worlds. Touching the reader really into the depths of mind, every now and then. Strong images; even beyond reality. Carefully constructed reflection of some time, of some world. Recommended!
And as being a writer myself I can add this thought here: even the most intimate and tender story can (critically and strongly) reflect the whole world and the whole time we are living or we have been living in...