Murakami does it again.

Reading this book left me feeling like an open wound raw under the harsh summer rain.

The person of me in the past would wished that it is not as sensual. what's with the oral sex, lesbian inclinations, sleeping with random people...

Yet somehow the person that embodied me today found the sensuality of it it quite a beauty... and quite incomplete if left without.

Somehow i find that i connected with this book at a deeper level than any of Murakami's books. Perhaps apart from Wind-up bird.

This book however is more rooted in reality and painfully shrouded with silence.

People that reads Murakami and appreciates his works often agree with me when i say that when you read his works...you find yourself enclosed in a vacuum space. Silent.

""Where the road sloped upward beyond the trees, I sat and looked toward the building where Naoko lived. It was easy to tell which room was hers. All I had to do was find the one window toward the back where a faint light trembled. I focused on that point of light for a long, long time. It made me think of something like the final throb of a soul's dying embers. I wanted to cup my hands over what was left and keep it alive. I went on watching the way Jay Gatsby watched that tiny light on the opposite shore night"

0 has delicate hands

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