/lit/ - Literature

>>10637900
I've been listening to it as an audiobook because I'd find it fatiguing to read, and it doesn't have weird acronyms or footnotes like Infinite Meme. Just started book three.

It has some interesting ideas. It gets pretty slow at times, but my fondness for the characters and my interest in Japanese cults and counterculture makes up for it. If these things don't appeal to you, or you don't like long passages aimed at creating a kind of unnerving ambiance, it might not work for you. It seriously suffers from "she breasted boobily to the stairs, and titted downwards" more than any other literary work I've read though.

Don't confuse the title with IQ84, which is a description of the average /pol/ poster.

Rilke anticipated the postmodern insight that there is no personality, there are just these various intersecting fields: that personality is socially constructed, genetically constructed, linguistically constructed, constructed by upbringing. Where the postmoderns go wrong is in positing a nullity behind all that. It’s not a nullity, it’s something raw and frightening and bottomless. It’s what Murakami goes looking for in the well in The Wind-up Bird Chronicle. To ignore it is to deny your humanity.

Rilke anticipated the postmodern insight that there is no personality, there are just these various intersecting fields: that personality is socially constructed, genetically constructed, linguistically constructed, constructed by upbringing. Where the postmoderns go wrong is in positing a nullity behind all that. It’s not a nullity, it’s something raw and frightening and bottomless. It’s what Murakami goes looking for in the well in The Wind-up Bird Chronicle. To ignore it is to deny your humanity.

AYO GAIJIN WHERE MUH MEDAL AT

Haruki Murakami doesn't get out much. He doesn't need to. Partying, snowboarding, romancing... These are fine pastimes, but everything seems dull next to exhilaration of simply being Haruki Murakami. He sits on his couch and listens to his cat eat dried food from her bowl in the kitchen. Crunch crunch crunch. Shall Murakami put on some music? he asks himself. Maybe The Beatles, or Nat King, or maybe a little Duke Ellington. Yes, Murakami will, but only after Murakami takes a piss. He lifts the toilet seats, unzips and takes out Murakami's Penis. He keeps it out for a little while after he's finished, making sure he has captured the maze-like intricacy of the veins, the Proustian multiplicity of his foreskin. It stings when Murakami pisses, because Murakami likes to fuck teenage whores. Christ had his cross, Murakami has Gonorrhoea.

"Cheeki Breeki".

What was that?

I made an alt account just to say this but

I actually like Murakami. His novels are full of feelings and I could actually connect to some of the familiarity of life it captures.

>>6978158
>likes this hack

Shouldn't you be busy memeposting on tumblr?