Its passages like this that remind me why I love reading Haruki Murakami (or at least the dudes who translate his books from Japanese to English): The sky was covered with a thin layer of clouds, not a patch of blue visible anywhere, though it did not look like rain. There was no wind, either. The branches of a nearby willow tree were laden with lush foliage and drooping heavily, almost to the ground, though they were still, as if lost in deep thought. Occasionally a small bird landed unsteadily on a branch, but soon gave up and fluttered away. Like a distraught mind, the branch quivered slightly, then returned to stillness.
Posted on: Tue, 09 Sep 2014 03:26:04 +0000
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