Friday, Kafka and Murakami

It's Friday the 13th, which I hope means nothing bad for the first game for the Dutch team in the World Cup this evening! Warning, I might be tweeting a lot about it. Anyways, it's time for some memes. Follow Friday is hosted by Alison Can Read and Parajunkee. This week's question is:

Armchair Travel! Tell us about your favourite book in a setting you'd like to visit (a real place for this question).
Hhmm, I'm actually not quite sure. It used to be Barcelona because of Zafon's books (The Shadow of the Wind, The Angel's Game etc.) but then I did go there two years ago and of course it wasn't the way it came across in the books. Much more touristy beach city rather than Gothic medieval town. Although I loved Barcelona, it wasn't what I was hoping for but I'm planning on going back and exploring a bit more one day, so I might change my mind.

I actually don't know where I'd want to go. I would love to go to Scotland and travel around for a bit in the hope to pick up some Harry Potter vibes. I'm currently reading The Lives of Others by Neel Mukherjee which has really made me want to visit India. The culture is so interesting, the architecture beautiful and the history fascinating.

Book Blogger Hop is hosted by Billy over at Ramblings of a Coffee Addicted Writer. Elizabeth over at Silver's Reviews keeps churning out great questions and this week's is:

Do you think your blog reflects your personality? Does it show organisation, a care-free style, or some other trait?
I do think my personality is reflected in this blog because although I do blog by schedule, many of my posts come about because I suddenly decide to write about something that bothers or interests me. I'm not very organised but I actually think my blog is one of the most organised things in my life. 

Of course it reflects my taste in books, which, I think, is a massive part of anyone's personality. My love for classics probably shows my interest in history and culture, whereas my passion for fantasy can be led back to me loving to travel to unknown countries and escaping ordinary days. 

Book Beginnings is hosted over at Rose City Reader and Friday 56 is hosted by Freda's Voice. This week I'm using Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami, translated by Phillip Gabriel. I only read two Kafka novels and haven't read any Murakami ones yet. I might not get to this one for a while, but it will definitely be read over the summer.

Kafka on the Shore, a tour de force of metaphysical reality, is powered by two remarkable characters: a teenage boy, Kafka Tamura, who runs away from home either to escape a gruesome oedipal prophecy or to search for his long-missing mother and sister; and an aging simpleton called Nakata, who never recovered from a wartime affliction and now is drawn toward Kafka for reasons that, like the most basic activities of daily life, he cannot fathom. Their odyssey, as mysterious to them as it is to us, is enriched throughout by vivid accomplices and mesmerizing events. Cats and people carry on conversations, a ghostlike pimp employs a Hegel-quoting prostitute, a forest harbors soldiers apparently unaged since World War II, and rainstorms of fish (and worse) fall from the sky. There is a brutal murder, with the identity of both victim and perpetrator a riddle - yet this, along with everything else, is eventually answered, just as the entwined destinies of Kafka and Nakata are gradually revealed, with one escaping his fate entirely and the other given a fresh start on his own.

BB:

'"So you're all set for money, then?" the boy named Crow asks in his typical sluggish voice. The kind of voice like when you've just woken up and your mouth still feels heavy and dull. But he's just pretending. He's totally awake. As always.' p.1

 I have a friend who constantly seems to be in a state of sleep, but I'm always surprised by how much he actually picks up while I talk to him. I wonder why this one is names Crow.

F56:

'I'm sorry, I didn't plan to write such a long letter, but there is one more thing I have to mention. To tell the truth, when my husband died in the Philippines just before the end of the war, it wasn't that much of a shock. I didn't feel any despair or anger--just a deep sense of helplessness. I didn't cry at all.' p.56

This is part of a letter. I wonder who is being addressed, but the description of the writer's feelings is really what gets me. The helplessness in the face of death is really sobering.