Excuse my wikipedia reference, but it’s true
I’m deep, btw
I feel obligated to write this. For your sake.
Murakami’s rumored but denied autobiographical novel on love, youth, angst, and “darkness,” leaves the reader underwhelmed, save the overdone nympho explicitness that is more a plea to keep the reader entertained than a willful or even conscious decision. The undeserved thick melancholy is distracting, and the merciless shock value used to get there is confusing and at times incoherent. The stifling melodrama, which is the only committed theme, materializes out of nothing– several times I had to stop to see if I had skipped over something. Disclaimer: I didn’t. Offering gratuitous sexual frustration and “resolve” (you should see some of the things these “young adults” do), unintelligible “deepness,” and an unforgiving amount of morbidity, Norwegian Wood is one giant, helpless cry for salvation, in which even Murakami himself grows desperate.
Apparently this is what the French hommes look like. Walking with two mysteriously unfitting older women, I received humored looks from his companions after I had been spotted trying to inconspicuously snap a photo of [this nameless man]. In broken attempts to legitimize, or possibly denounce, my paparazzi tendencies, I approached and asked if I could take his picture for my blog. His “friends,” as I will call them for the time being, seemed thrilled, going on to tell me that he was a célébrité, to which I stuck my head in my butt and apologized for my offensive casualness. My head was soon recovered after learning that no, this was not true. But it was all in good fun, as we shared awkward laughs, email addresses, and the usual happenings. (The going rate for his email address is 50 euros, while supplies last). Lucy Perkins, if you’re reading this, he was roughly 400 feet tall.
*For that “personal element,” i.e. for all of you who are convinced you will meet and have a romantic relationship with him, I will divulge the following information: he says he likes the photographer Terry Richardson, if you want to check him out. (I also partly say this so that I can add Terry Richardson as a tag…is that sad?)
It was the spotting of the deluxe office chair in this parking lot-like urban desert that made me laugh out loud on my bike, necessitating a U-turn to see what these guys were up to. Getting queer looks as I rode towards them, with an awkward amount of interrogative eye-contact on both ends, I slowly coasted my way nearer, stopping just short of the knee high fence that stood between us.
“Your shoes too!” She hollered back.
She stood for this one. And I still don’t know where they got the armchair.