The end of the artificial twilight

The advantage of having finally replaced the burned out flourescent bulb above my bed is that I can read much later into the night. I find it immensely satisfying to be absorbed into a fictional world for a few hours everyday. The disadvantage of course is that I can now read much later into the night.

I have once again become completely absorbed into the seductively surreal world of the masterful tale spinning magician Murakami. It saddens me deeply that I soon will find myself at the end of this avenue. But like a heroin addict, rather than confront my sadness, I plug in again to forget, only quickening my descent, and beckoning the end. Where will I turn when Toru Okada finally finds Kumiko? I don’t want to think about it. Feeling the lightening weight of the right half of the book, I feel like I’m standing on a dock preparing to bid farewell to some dear friends sailing for the end of the earth on ships with white sails to begin a new life in a wild land without telephones or internet. I don’t think I could put it any more succinctly than that. All in all, I suggest you find yourself a good reading lamp and a copy of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and lose some sleep this week. It’s even better than dreaming.