Rat series / 1-2 / Hear the Wind Sing / Pinball

The twins woke me up on Thursday morning. Fifteen minutes earlier than usual, but what the heck. I shaved, drank my cof­fee, and pored over the morning paper, so fresh from the press that its ink looked ready to smear my hands.

We have a favor to ask, said one of the twins.

Think you can borrow a car on Sunday? said the other.

I guess so, I said. Where do you want to go?

The reservoir.

The reservoir?

They nodded.

What are you planning to do at the reservoir?

Hold a funeral.

Who for?

The switch panel, of course.

I see, I said. And went back to my paper.
 
Unfortunately, a fine rain was falling Sunday morning. Not that I knew what sort of weather befitted a switch panel s funeral. The twins never mentioned the rain, so neither did I.
I had borrowed my business partner s sky-blue Volkswagen Beetle. Got a girl now, huh? he asked. Mm, I answered. His son had smeared milk chocolate or something all over the back­seat, leaving what looked like bloodstains from a gunfight. Not a single one of his cassette tapes was any good, so we spent the entire hour-and-a-half trip in silence. The rain grew stronger, then weaker, then stronger, then weaker again, at regular inter­vals. A yawn-inducing sort of rain. The only constant was the steady whoosh of oncoming traffic speeding by on the paved road.

One twin sat in the front passenger seat, the other in the backseat, her arms around a thermos bottle and the shopping bag that held the switch panel. Their faces were grave, appropri­ate for a funeral. I matched my mood to theirs. We maintained that solemnity even when we stopped to eat roasted corn. All that broke the silence was the sound of kernels popping off the cob. We gnawed the cobs bare, tossed them away, and resumed our drive.

The area turned out to be populated by hordes of dogs, who milled around in the rain like a school of yellowtail in an aquarium. As a result, I spent a lot of time leaning on the horn.

Haruki Murakami; translated by Ted Goossen

More than anyone, Haruki Murakami invented 21st-century fiction. . . . He is the novelist of our mash-up epoch. . . . Murakami s atomic sensibility characterizes world literature."  The New York Times Book Review

Powerful, unsettling, mature novels. . . . Murakami gives his characters' quirks a humanizing legitimacy. Chicago Tribune
 
Early Murakami isn t Murakami-in-the-making, it s already and entirely Murakami. The Guardian
 
Both books have that unique blend of melancholy and beauty that Murakami manages so well; they are mysterious, moreish. . . . What stands out . . . is the writing, beautiful in its simplicity, and also the deadpan humour and one-liners. . . . The dialogue is sparklingly clever, drunkenly witty. The Independent

A fresh, heart-warming dose of the Japanese master. . . . Signals that would become familiar in Mr Murakami s fiction make an early appearance: characters alienated by society and afflicted by loneliness and ennui; quotidian detail that is, by turn, banal and fascinating; musical references; supernatural undertones; dark dreams and black humour. The Economist
 
Murakami's trademark postmodernist flourishes abound . . . and never fail to surprise and delight. O, The Oprah Magazine

Short, darkly magical coming-of-age tales. Elle
 
Indispensable. . . . There is evidence of the themes, motifs and yes, obsessions, that would come to infuse his later books. The Free Lance-Star (Fredericksburg)
 
An invaluable addition to the canon. Toronto Star
 
A great treat both for Murakami enthusiasts and for the more casually interested reader. . . . A pair of early literary excursions that are never less than insightful and intelligent; brisk and diverting; unusual and transporting. The National (UAE)
 
The writing and, above all, Murakami s way of making emotionally resonant images and symbols bump around on the page, and in one s mind, remains fresh, miraculously,