I sat down on the grey sofa, holding a book given by my wife.
It was a cool Wednesday afternoon. Unusual, because usually this time in March the sun would be scorching hot. The gentle breeze eased its way through the windows.
It’s a perfect setting for reading. Hours and hours of page-flipping.
The tactile feeing of turning the pages on a paperback.
The book is called Wind Pinball, by Haruki Murakami.
A short introduction takes readers to the beginning.
His early works involved late night writing on a kitchen table, right into the early hours of the morning.
Unless it’s truly out of love, it’s impossible to sustain.
He loves running the jazz bar and he loves writing.
Life is strange, he said. He had sent the only copy of manuscript for Hear The Wind Sing to an editor.
Had that got rejected, he would probably not continue writing.
Simple short and effective sentences. Clarity of thoughts and clear writing.
It’s a difficult skill to master. A style that Murakami has defined, as much as his surreal plots have captured a loyal following.