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by Haruki Murakami
In a word (or two or three): i was going to read it in the original japanese, but figured knowing how to order california roll didn't qualify me...
From
Mr. Hipster:
I'm usually a little hesitant to read translated
books. What if the author meant "that" and the translator
went with "which?" It just can't be as good as it was in
the author's native language--nor can it be 100% true to his intentions.
So when somebody suggested I read this book (obviously written originally
in Japanese), I bought it with some skepticism. The author, Murakami,
writes rather simply, so maybe not too much finessing was necessary,
but there were only a couple little spots in the book that I was reminded
that this wasn't a book written in English. It was less word usage
than a couple turns of phrase. Think of it as listening to a band
like The Hives--what they're playing is most definitely rock 'n roll,
but the accent is all wrong. While he does write in more simple language,
Murakami's ideas are not necessarily simple. He covers a whole gamut
of post-modern plagues like loneliness, dissatisfaction, shame, family
dysfunction, rape, incest, war, torture, Mongolia, fortune telling,
male pattern baldness, self-loathing, political power, and, of course,
sex and jellyfish. That's just a small snippet of some of the topics
covered, and it's all wrapped in a shroud of Buddhist mysticism and
riddles. It's certainly an original story, and really stretches the
boundaries of typical fiction. This was a pretty cool book that makes
me wonder why I haven't read more translated novels. Maybe I'll just
read this one again and save myself the $16.99 and a possible headache
trying to decipher some story about a 1619 war between Poland and
the Prussian Empire.
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