Classify me as a bookworm or one of those people who have hobbies that are a snooze fest, but I love reading. It may have started with Peter and Jane and transitioned to Enid Blyton and went to an embarrassing hopeless romantic (read: deplorable) phase of Nicholas Sparks and even the “football literature” phase with works from Sid Lowe and Stefan Szymanski. But soon I found my cup of tea when it came to books: Haruki Murakami.
Anyone who knows me well is aware that I’m a self-confessed Murakami snob, a moniker I take seriously. So far, I’ve read nine of his works. I loved the idea of meeting a Sheep Man who tells you to dance, the ability to talk to cats, having a parallel universe with two moons or when your brain is circuited to the end of the world. Oh, and not to forget all those times you had a friend named “Rat” that you had to track within three books, completely unrelated to each other. What a dystopian literature dream!
forbidden wonderful worlds of Haruki Murakami!
See, told ya I take the term “Murakami Snob” seriously. I got carried away. Soz.
The purpose of writing this post is to explore the art of book hoarding and how anxiety plays a role (yea, if you’re in my shoes anxiety plays a role in everything). Continue Reading