I spent most of the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day reading Norwegian Wood. I started reading it as soon as I had unwrapped it, while my family’s attention was turned to someone else’s gifts, and I only paused because it was Christmas after all, and I should be social. But as soon as everyone else was asleep, I opened the book again and rushed through the story.
Now I’m reading Kafka on the Shore and it’s the same feeling: I want to read it as fast as possible, but that means it’s going to end. And I want to think about every sentence and figure out all the symbolism, but that means I would have to stop reading. It’s terrible, and I love it.
Ingvild – I know you have a Murakami book in your apartment. I will probably steal it next time I’m there.
Per Ivar – Thank you.