Thermals

What team does Nietzsche play for, was a jest in the London Times recently, as the author felt that a broach, however epidermal, of German letters was needed to understand pathos and competitive zeal of this particular Cup. While I can barely tether a sneer at such shortcomings, I must burrow into a confessional aspect of my own recent reading. As I noted in my recent homage to Freedarko blogging, rife with images – even of a brewery – I have followed the minor key joy of South of the Border and have plunged headfirst in Hard Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. It must be noted that nearly one hundred pages into the bulky yet sleek beast, one is jarred by its ontology, its strata as a cyber-punk novel. I must admit to being uncomfortable with such and I would likely have reshelved the book if I wasn’t so damned high on Haruki after that subtle gesture. I have never been drawn to sci-fi in any form except the post-apocalyptic digressions of Mitchell and Houellebecq. One must, however, grasp the fable for its searing poetry, Murakami follows the effaced detail of the noir novel and assembles something monstrous and ultimately unsettling in its sublime humanity.