Slowly, I’ll Learn
In 2009, I would like to review each book that I read. Whether my personal reaction to a book is a review is up for debate.
(Last year, I tried one or two book reviews. But, I guess, each review focused on me as opposed to the book. Maybe that’s how I write book reviews. Or, maybe that’s how I read books.)
Right now, I am at the stage of my life where I like reading much better than writing. In order to make myself write, I’m not letting myself read anymore until I write the last book out of my memory.
So, here is my lame attempt at a this-isn’t-about-my-love-life book review for “Norwegian Wood” by Haruki Murakami.
This book feels more immature than Murakami’s other books. The sex parts feel too energized and awkward and seem more frequent and less significant than his later books.
But, I’m trying not to talk about sex. Or love. Even though that’s the subject of Murakami’s book.
He writes about people who die at the age of 17 and how they are forever 17. When I read that I can’t help but wonder if that also happens to people who are still alive but with whom we lose touch.
Will my college roommate forever stay 18 in my head? Will my first grade teacher always stay a Miss rather than a Mrs or a Ms? Will I always remember the first person who I fell in love with in the spring time?
The book is sad. It’s angering. It’s part of life. Murakami’s writing makes it semi-digestible and beautiful.
And I just want to get on with my next book.
Another Murakami but it seems more sci-fi. And I’m on a sci-fi nerd kick.