just loose comments

发福的唐吉珂徳

Actually, just one novel I have read over by Murakami, the well-claimed Norwegian Wood. This one arouses my interest purely from its unfamiliar title that attributes to the same writer and, I have to admit, its another cover with nude woman photo by Nobuyoshi Araki.

actually a not fit so well cover choice

I searched over the whole available online bookstore; JD turned out the novel with such a cover is on sale. I placed an order (most of the situations, z.cn), and received the common red one, as revealed on the Douban page.

But I got into reading it.


First paragraph intense like that always fails to meet the aroused anticipation, as reading experiences have granted ...

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Actually, just one novel I have read over by Murakami, the well-claimed Norwegian Wood. This one arouses my interest purely from its unfamiliar title that attributes to the same writer and, I have to admit, its another cover with nude woman photo by Nobuyoshi Araki.

actually a not fit so well cover choice

I searched over the whole available online bookstore; JD turned out the novel with such a cover is on sale. I placed an order (most of the situations, z.cn), and received the common red one, as revealed on the Douban page.

But I got into reading it.


First paragraph intense like that always fails to meet the aroused anticipation, as reading experiences have granted me. This time, I chose to give it a shot. It is Murakami. Even he may disappoint me with such intense initialization, yet he might disappoint good.

It is true.

This is just a bunch of twisted subtle insights over human mystical tenderness. Whtat is described in the fiction (REALLY fictional!) is seen on few, but shared by many. Murakami is such a soul seasoned in observing these void existences among human diversity and brave to bring them into concrete textual desirous form, in distinguished characters, in artfully awkward plots, in wayward meanwhile sincere monologues.

Anyway, reading a novel like this never lacks adventurous joy in pages turning. The matter is, after savouring over the attention capturing fragments, readers can hardly find a solid clue to piece up any sense, which, as a matter of literal fact, is never the author's intention. It is the reader's personal emotional depth that the text is aspirant to touch upon. Mine is besieged.

You can tell the tricks woven in, but vulnerable to be fooled. You are just seeking way out to be excellently fooled for a long run. This little book happens to do it in a just way. It doesn't mean to be perfect as a work of a mature novelist, but a technic bout of epidemic afflicting to one particular type. The folk who seek to be good fooled. You know, realities always show their faces on fictional existence, just wearing another name and located in fresh sites with typical relationships overlayed. How about something that hard to explain, that not that reality, oblivious to any attempt to give it an appropriate end, like the ultimate reality stands. Sputnik Sweetheart is one of them.

In sense like this, I am content with what I have just finished reading, but still itched on the flawed character developments. Images have been successfully erected, no one denies; however, there might be better shells suit the same ghost. Miu, Sumire, or "I" are lovely small figures well fed with tastes of good stuff in the world. Their interwoven relationships are scattered and sensuously implied. I wonder Murakami just bump into the ideas of those personas, and give them free rein, into near-dawn deep night, open blue sea isle, occulant space hung in mid-air Ferris Wheel cart ...

This reflection nurtures my ambition of trying my fiction. This is not out of blue. Finding hard to sort my own emotional experience into literal order, I always come into the idea of writing something, but bother a lot on making ends meet. Sputnik Sweetheart shows, fuck it. Just select a couple of souls, and colour them as far as you can with your understanding of human mystical tenderness pigments.

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