Every night these days, I curl up with a book. I started by forcing myself. Not on the kindle. A real, physical, tangible book whose pages I can turn. An hour in bed with a story that isn’t my own. I cannot tell you how joyful it feels to read fiction, after having starved myself off it for so long.
I’m reading 1Q84- a Murakami classic. My heart is singing, connecting with characters, listening to their commentary, reimagining their works and my own. It is as the book suggests:
No matter how clear the relationship of things might be in the forest of story, there never was a clear-cut solution…the role of the story was, in the broadest terms, to transpose a single problem into another form. Depending on the nature and direction of the problem, a solution could be suggested in the narrative. Tengo would return to the real world with that suggestion in hand.
That is what fiction does: it morphs the world a little, until something old emerges as something new, and you feel yourself renewed with a strange kind if glow that you had always possessed, but were running low on.
Oh Murakami, thank you for weaving your fantastically weird narratives with such grounded cores!