Firefly

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That photo, is the book im currently reading – Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman. By Murakami. (Isn’t it lovely to be famous with even just your last name).

So why this book, why this photo? Because I’ve been folding pages as I come across favourite lines – its too disruptive to write them down immediately, and I don’t have a pen or sticky notes on hand.

The book’s a collection of short stories. That cluttered section with an abnormally dense bunch of folded pages is Firefly. It shocked me. Firefly is actually the root of Norwegian Wood. One of the beginning bits anyway.

I.., well, haven’t picked up that book in awhile. It’s just like how I accidentally stumbled upon Norwegian Wood at an opportune moment. And now this. Hell, I don’t know why it happens. It’s like reading Norwegian Wood all over again.

It hurts.

It saddens. It stirs up emotions that perhaps should better be buried and hidden. If I could quote that entire book here, but it is much too painful to force everyone to read. I will probably end up quoting part of it anyway. But just… oh well.

So this book, Blind Willows, Sleeping Woman, contains fifteen, twenty short stories. Each one short, concise, poignant. Largely culminating in one intense emotion. You know, the kind that is so precise and deep that it is so difficult to express in one sentence or one paragraph, and instead requires one entire short story. Firefly was one of them. But Firefly was special. It was longer than the rest, there were many emotions. I could tell it was one of Murakami’s favourites, and there was more on it. More, which he eventually wrote into an entire novel. And there was another, which reminded me of Dance Dance Dance. Hah. It’s like how Ender’s Game started off as a short story.

Sigh.

I’m in this mood again.

Norwegian Wood.

Firefly

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