The joy of seeing a stack of Murakami’s books, Lang Leav’s and a few more books by author that I would go “ahhhhhhhh” (while checking their crazy price!) is relatively indescribable. There’s something about the art of Murakami it almost feel like me hanging out somewhere at a beach, and more often than not, I would find myself sitting on a deserted bench observing all the tiny movements and behaviours of people- in slow-mo. Beautiful, beautiful stuffs.
I don’t know if it’s legit to compare Murakami and A. Samad Said but I love both of their writings. I would read back to back, and pause multiple times it if it’s too awesome! I mean, that is what people don’t know about me. I pause / continue later if they are too good to read, just because I don’t know what to do about their awesomeness. Hence, it would take me forever to finish my favorite books.
Anyway, back to the main topic. Yeah, books at the bookshelves. Given Murakami’s books are quite expensive here in the local bookstore, I screamed in joy (silent scream, not wanting to be a centre of attraction!) when I see the books were displayed in one of the small bookstores in Adisucipto Airport, Yogyakarta few weeks ago. I spottted a few more Murakami’s books and all of my Lang Leav’s crush books. Price in Indonesia Rupiah (IDR) which is wayyy cheaper! Checked Rupiah notes in my seasoned purse, I still had around 300+ Rupiah due to my lack interest to shop batik fabric earlier when we stopped at the shopping centre. If I had more money in the purse, I think I will bag in everything there! So, as a result, I bought the thick 1Q84, which contained all the 3 volumes – priced about 288 Rupiah. Satisfied!
I think the books at the bookshelves aren’t really the main topic here. What triggered me to write this post (rant) was actually right after I stumbled upon and read this particular blog by the name of Dear Sarina. I adore how she writes and how she carves each and every word, the art is there, and the messages are obvious and deep. What else is needed to be a good writer? I’m jealous.
Ah, I am still me. Easily fall in love with people who write! (Love is love, regardless gender. Don’t judge me as a lesbian please lol).
I should read more to write. No question about it.
“Why would I pay attention to the glitter of this world? I am none but a traveler who found a tree and took a small rest under its shade, then went away and left it.”
When it comes to Murakami’s books, I tend to take a longer time to finish. By ‘longer’ I mean, maybe more than 5 – 6 months since 1. I read books during selective weekend / night. 2. I love how he put things into picture until it seemed alive and as if the words themselves are talking to me hence I tend to have a lot of my kind-of- silent-moment upon his brilliant elaboration (I guess that what made him as a legendary writer). His words hit the right spot and yeah, he really is an excellent author no doubt about it.
In Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage, when Tsukuru dreamt he was in a great jealousy for the first time in his life, Murakami successfully (at least in my view) inserted “jealousy” into a vivid frame. It just feels the same like what I sometimes feel and finally, I found the right word – most hopeless prison. Being in state of jealousy is like being in a hopeless prison that you stepped in yourself. No matter how suffocated you are in the prison, you insist to stay for some odd reasons.
“Jealousy—at least as far as he understood it from his dream—was the most hopeless prison in the world. Jealousy was not a place he was forced into by someone else, but a jail in which the inmate entered voluntarily, locked the door, and threw away the key. And not another soul in the world knew he was locked inside. Of course if he wanted to escape he could do so. The prison, was after all, his own heart. But he couldn’t make that decision. His heart was as hard as a stone wall. This was the very essence of jealousy.”
to many more posts about his quotes.
“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
-From my all-time favorite author Haruki Murakami (Kafka on the Shore).