Murakami

I read as much fiction as I can as a sort of escape from my fact-filled profession,  but for the past few months I’ve been reading nothing but Haruki Murakami books (okay, and Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series, but that’s another story).

“Kafka on the Shore” is definitely one of my favorites, thanks to its memorable quirky characters. I remember reading it on New Year’s Eve instead of joining the revelry outside, which of course peeved my relatives a bit, but what the hell, that’s how fascinating the novel was.

Among his more “realistic” novels, my favorite is “South of the Border, West of the Sun,” a heartfelt story about a man whose peaceful life was shaken by the return of a childhood sweetheart.

I bought my copy of “South of the Border, West of the Sun” along with “The Elephant Vanishes”–not shown in the picture, since it’s currently seating, unread, on my work desk–from one of the book sellers outside UP Manila, which I pass by every time I buy lunch.

I already have copies of most of his novels, and I dread the day I have bought and read every Murakami book there is.

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