farm city!

everything i know about writing, i learned from music. | November 9, 2009

Haruki Murakami. My Man in Japan.

“She started asking me all kinds of personal questions – how many girls had I slept with? Where was I from? Which school did I go to? What kind of music did I like? Had I ever read any novels by Osamu Dazai? Where would I like to go if I could travel abroad? Did I think her nipples were too big? I made up some answers and went to sleep, but next morning she said she wanted to have breakfast with me, and she kept up the stream of questions over the tasteless eggs and toast and coffee. What kind of work did my father do? Did I have good grades in high school? What month was I born? Had I ever eaten frogs? She was giving me a headache, so as soon as we had finished eating I said I had to go to work.
‘Will I ever see you again?’ she asked with a sad look.
‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll meet again somewhere before long,’ I said, and left. What the hell am I doing? I started wondering as soon as I was alone and feeling disgusted with myself. And yet it was all I could do. My body was hungering for women. All the time I was sleeping with those girls, I thought about Naoko, about the white shape of her naked body in the darkness, her sighs, the sound of the rain. The more I thought about these things, the hungrier my body grew. I went up to the roof with my whiskey and asked myself where I thought I was heading.”

Norwegian Wood

I just finished reading another novel by Murakami. He combines all the things I love about life, about literature – women, sadness, sex, loneliness, music, drink.


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