The never ending journey

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Am I doing the book justice by filtering the colour?

Not that the book needs it.

Here I am continuing the unfinished pages of Colorless while waiting for my last flight. For those who are a fan of the author, you might had heard his story on how the sudden thought of writing a novel came to fruition. Sure, the story itself sounded as if it was just another story in Haruki Murakami’s world. Mysterious and surreal.

But that’s a story for another day. (or if you’re up for it, search it up)

In my case, it’s the story of how I came across Haruki Murakami that I intend to share.

From the very depth of my memory, my first encounter with Haruki Murakami was rather vague. It wasn’t because I was an avid reader nor because I was into the realm of kafkaesque literature. It was simply due to my innate nature of clicking the blue link in Wikipedia. (hah)

It’s true. I have no recollection of how I got there, however, similar to a dream, I was suddenly infront of it, reading the Oedipus complex. That’s how I got to Kafka on the shore, the very first Murakami book that I read. Ofcourse, I was simply curious, not interested. Interest is as if I’m opening the book to finish it, curiosity is fiddling with the synopsis by back cover over a lazy evening.

I downloaded the e-book and finished it after a full month. It took too long, but the story was still fresh. Even now, it still is my favorite among the others.

If you’re into dark, surreal, and mysterious story. Go for Kafka on the shore.

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