It’s been flirtatious for awhile. We first met in college - my roommates have been long acquaintances and wanted to introduce us, thinking we’d get along. I’d play coy, saying, “He’s not really my type” or “I’m just not that into Asian American literature.” I’d visit the 'M's at the bookstore, but would just brush my fingers along the spines, nonchalant but secretly curious. Eventually, I looked him up on Amazon, and read member reviews, and synopses. I got to know him pretty well, but only peripherally. I refused to give in.
Over the weekend, though, I was finally seduced by the world of
Haruki Murakami. I lapped up the first chapter of
Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World. We're not serious yet - see, I didn't make the purchase. Maybe we'll just have dates at the library for now. And then perhaps go for coffee. I can really see this going somewhere.
Bestest,
Claire
1 comment:
I feel retarded for always recommending you books, but here is another in response to Asian writers. Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro. Beautifully written, and plain ol' good story telling. The kind that has you salivating as you arrive to your bed after a bathroom break. Oh, this is Peter.
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