Chasing sheep
Only Murakami gives me this feeling of having turned my days into a narrative resembling a hiccuping, smooth staccato. Apparently, he also makes me write like a complete twat. I feel like my days are constructed in simple sentences that somehow, in a design ineffable, make the storyline plod along. You see. A complete twat.
What happened was this. I stumbled quite inadvertently onto an e-book reader application complete with a severely long list of authors whose works were themselves available for free download. So I got a dubious one of Wilde's entitled Sh*t My Dad (Never) Says, several of Murakami's works, and the entire lot of Pratchett's. (I have a strange, inarticulatable feeling about this. On the one hand, having completed the Discworld, his earlier, and later novels in the form of a full-blooded, ink-and-paper library is severely satisfying. Having a virtual copy of the same didn't add anything resembling good to the ownership, it merely added something quite nondescript. The Murakamis I don't mind. After having read After Dark and A Wild Sheep Chase I knew not to buy their book forms.)
My entire day reads like a breathtakingly bad novel in my head now, and with conflicting points of view. One time omniscient, the other, first person, and another, headless. Oh Murakami, your genius is irresistible, unpalatable. As though this day and this day alone, with its sentence structure written by a four-year old with rheumatism, has meaning only for an objective mind outside of the cosmos, in a prefigured turn of circumstances too insignificant for anything at all - and all the while the objective mind belongs to a sheep grazing somewhere in meadows within a cow's udders. I will start with Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World now. Somehow I cannot stop reading you, if only because your titles are so eccentric they unerringly take me to the last words of your novels to figure out that, you have, again and again, rendered me into a twat. My hat off to you, senpai.
What happened was this. I stumbled quite inadvertently onto an e-book reader application complete with a severely long list of authors whose works were themselves available for free download. So I got a dubious one of Wilde's entitled Sh*t My Dad (Never) Says, several of Murakami's works, and the entire lot of Pratchett's. (I have a strange, inarticulatable feeling about this. On the one hand, having completed the Discworld, his earlier, and later novels in the form of a full-blooded, ink-and-paper library is severely satisfying. Having a virtual copy of the same didn't add anything resembling good to the ownership, it merely added something quite nondescript. The Murakamis I don't mind. After having read After Dark and A Wild Sheep Chase I knew not to buy their book forms.)
My entire day reads like a breathtakingly bad novel in my head now, and with conflicting points of view. One time omniscient, the other, first person, and another, headless. Oh Murakami, your genius is irresistible, unpalatable. As though this day and this day alone, with its sentence structure written by a four-year old with rheumatism, has meaning only for an objective mind outside of the cosmos, in a prefigured turn of circumstances too insignificant for anything at all - and all the while the objective mind belongs to a sheep grazing somewhere in meadows within a cow's udders. I will start with Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World now. Somehow I cannot stop reading you, if only because your titles are so eccentric they unerringly take me to the last words of your novels to figure out that, you have, again and again, rendered me into a twat. My hat off to you, senpai.
http://fc05.deviantart.net/fs49/f/2009/190/1/6/A_Wild_Sheep_Chase_by_Devildevious.jpg |
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