Currently engaged in Murakami's Blind Willow Sleeping Woman.
Or is it Blind Woman Sleeping Willow.
Seriously flex your brain muscles.
I have always taken an instant preference over novels than short stories, due to usual issues such as long term investment (like emotional investment); living someone elses' life than your own, etc.
But recently, I have taken a liking to short stories. Esp Murakami's. It's so unsettling, some of the metaphors used will have to be rethink and weighed again, best done in your private reverie on a train or standing up swaying on a bus.
Such as:
Can the May wind be liken to ripe fruits that burst out stinging seeds?
Do old ppl smell like mouldy rain?
Riddle-like similes enough to last you 24-7 private mental fun.
Or maybe everyone else really liken mouldy rain smell to old ppl? And that Spring winds do sting secretly?
Or maybe everything can be traced to the translator's fault of inadequate expressions?
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