The Day I Decide Life Is Too Short

I was first introduced to Haruki on an MIT poster announcing his one time only lecture. I confused him with Takashi Murakami and became unduly excited, frantically mental-noting the date. Only after I (of course) completely forgot the lecture altogether and happened across a still hanging reminder of the event, did I read the mini-bio and realize my ignorance.

However, in my misplaced tizzy of excitement, I had brought up the lecture to a few friends, who were also really excited to see him. As amusing as it would be to believe they made the identical mistake of identity, it dawned on me that I was most decidedly out of the cultural loop on this one.

Wikipedia to the rescue.

For some reason, the term postmodern intrinsically floats my skirt. When I read his novels described as such, I beelined it to the nearest bookstore and purchased THE WIND-UP BIRD CHRONICLE, which was cited by The New York Times (my bible, evidently) as one of his crowning achievements.

486 pages later, I am summarily over my Haruki fascination.

There are only about 150 pages more to go, but I just, I just, no more! It's the bluntness of the prose that's killing me, or better yet, its complete lack of elegance.
And the nail in the coffin for me is the complete loser who is the main character. He is an enervated and ambitionless man and if I have to read another boring thought of his, I just may turn into him.

And that would suck.

However, my decision not to finish the book is giving me a bit of anguish. That's like not wiping after you pee or something. Some things once started must be finished! But, dude, I'm old. Like, honestly, officially old. Time is of a premium now, and I guess I just no longer finish books that suck. Give me ten more years and I may even stop wiping. It's funny the things that seem to matter less and less with age.

(Not funny ha ha, more funny hmmmmmmmm.)