Now that I’ve read more than one of Murakami’s books, I get it. Having seen him talk since reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, it made sense how he writes, and now I’ve read Norwegian Wood, it clicks.
The wells, the man who puts himself down as purely ordinary, the really nice writing, the airy turns of phrase, the wonder of every day things. It’s difficult to put into words, but had I not heard him talk, I don’t think I’d quite get it as much. This isn’t making much sense.
But anyway, I enjoyed this book. It wasn’t as immediately grabbing as The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, mainly because it lacked the immediate mystery of what happened to the cat and who the lady phone caller was, but it ended up nice in the end.
It’s a safety in nostalgia, battling with something new, and I liked it.