I got a cold. A semi-badish one. There was a lot of coughing up involved. No more details necessary.
A general sense of discontentment. A week without finishing a single book. Many started, none finished. I am holding out to go cheap book shopping because despite the numerous books on the shelf, I don't want to read any of them at the moment and the ink well has gone dry. I haven't written more than a paragraph in some time. Remember, blogging doesn't count. It's like horseshoes and hand grenades. An exception.
I tried to provide moral support to C. so he'd finish Marquez's 100 Years of Solitude. I don't think it worked. He got confused by all the names and timelines. I however will go to the grave defending the book's brilliance. To the grave.
In lieu of writing, I spent massive amounts of time downloading music I don't need because my iPod is the music player equivalent of an overeater's pants after Thanksgiving dinner. But of course I needed 6 gigs of Kraftwerk. Who doesn't? Plus I now have the entire Madness discography and a new selection of Razormaid remixes to choose from as I nod my head on the metro.
Also, I did find The Monroes "What do all the people know". Which might be one of the greatest Ska songs of all time.
But now to Murakami's "After Dark".
In terms of the way it's written with everything taking place within the course of one night and in the first person plural "we", it's interesting. He managed to get cats into the story (of course he did). There's the usual call girls, chain restaurant references, and characters who are unhappy but not unhappy enough.
In terms of length it's about 200 pages. Why did I get the feeling that Murakami had to push one out for the publisher, which is the writer's equivalent of jerking off before a big date. I simply didn't connect with the book. I kept reading it because I thought at any moment I would. I didn't learn enough about the characters. Or at least not the ones I was the most interested in. I know it's supposed to be a novella (fancy word Italian in origin for a short book the writer obviously didn't give a shit enough about to write properly? Hmmm maybe.), but why introduce a character at all, focus on them intensely, but not tell me anything about them really?
Towards the end there was something resembling an ending. The sun came up. A few things happened. But characters disappeared. It left me with the same feeling I have when I try to find the Rick James skit from the Dave Chapelle show on YouTube and it's some teenage idiots horrible remix of it and not the actual skit.
I still hold a place in my heart for Murakami because of Norweigan Wood, Wind Up Bird, and Hard Boiled, but I can only forgive so much. I did however take notes of some of the effects he achieved which might be helpful to me in my work. But I except and demand more.
Maybe Murakami's ink well is going dry too?
Overall I wouldn't discourage someone from reading it, but if you like it. Please, tell me why.
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A general sense of discontentment. A week without finishing a single book. Many started, none finished. I am holding out to go cheap book shopping because despite the numerous books on the shelf, I don't want to read any of them at the moment and the ink well has gone dry. I haven't written more than a paragraph in some time. Remember, blogging doesn't count. It's like horseshoes and hand grenades. An exception.
I tried to provide moral support to C. so he'd finish Marquez's 100 Years of Solitude. I don't think it worked. He got confused by all the names and timelines. I however will go to the grave defending the book's brilliance. To the grave.
In lieu of writing, I spent massive amounts of time downloading music I don't need because my iPod is the music player equivalent of an overeater's pants after Thanksgiving dinner. But of course I needed 6 gigs of Kraftwerk. Who doesn't? Plus I now have the entire Madness discography and a new selection of Razormaid remixes to choose from as I nod my head on the metro.
Also, I did find The Monroes "What do all the people know". Which might be one of the greatest Ska songs of all time.
But now to Murakami's "After Dark".
In terms of the way it's written with everything taking place within the course of one night and in the first person plural "we", it's interesting. He managed to get cats into the story (of course he did). There's the usual call girls, chain restaurant references, and characters who are unhappy but not unhappy enough.
In terms of length it's about 200 pages. Why did I get the feeling that Murakami had to push one out for the publisher, which is the writer's equivalent of jerking off before a big date. I simply didn't connect with the book. I kept reading it because I thought at any moment I would. I didn't learn enough about the characters. Or at least not the ones I was the most interested in. I know it's supposed to be a novella (fancy word Italian in origin for a short book the writer obviously didn't give a shit enough about to write properly? Hmmm maybe.), but why introduce a character at all, focus on them intensely, but not tell me anything about them really?
Towards the end there was something resembling an ending. The sun came up. A few things happened. But characters disappeared. It left me with the same feeling I have when I try to find the Rick James skit from the Dave Chapelle show on YouTube and it's some teenage idiots horrible remix of it and not the actual skit.
I still hold a place in my heart for Murakami because of Norweigan Wood, Wind Up Bird, and Hard Boiled, but I can only forgive so much. I did however take notes of some of the effects he achieved which might be helpful to me in my work. But I except and demand more.
Maybe Murakami's ink well is going dry too?
Overall I wouldn't discourage someone from reading it, but if you like it. Please, tell me why.
