A general thank you to those who have sent such nice and interesting email; I’m always surprised anew to hear from people who have found and read something here that moved them to writing. If it wasn’t a late Friday afternoon after too much work and not enough pleasure, I’d give that a good think but. It’s been cold here in Cincinnati up until today; in the 60s; right now I have the dining room doors open onto the patio (yeah, it’s a little chilly) and there’s a high-whistling bird that I don’t know very near doing its thing. And I love it. I don’t want to be that –what?– to be so uplifted, hopeful that this discouragement and despair over finding myself here, after all, can abate because of birdsong. Or do I?
I opened one box of books the other day. There was Haruki Murakami’s The Elephant Vanishes. A book of his stories, early 90s, I think. Follow the links for official facts. The book’s not my favorite of his works, but this is good writing, a good book. Lately, I have been thinking again about metaphor. (I hope I never stop.) As should it be, many, many things can and have been and will continue to be said about Murakami’s fiction. I am going to say — only — that I was struck last night again, anew, by his metaphors. Here’s a few from this book, the stories in this book that I read again last night:
When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence’s piggy bank.
Her eyes could have been searching for a faded star in the morning sky. Â
This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock built when peace filled the world.