By Dan Leach
I read all the books you left behind. What? I couldn’t help it. You had, by then, stopped answering my calls and it was the closest thing I knew to hearing your voice again. Pathetic, I know, to think that I could find some part of you in a line by Carver or Munro. But, by then, I was not thinking clearly and each new sentence seemed to shine like a clue that, if studied hard enough, might lead me back to you.
I read them all in public, in coffee shops and cafes and on all those little benches scattered through downtown that nobody ever sits on. My arms would get sore from the angle at which I held them, an angle designed for you, just in case you happened to walk by. I wanted the sunlight to fall just so and the cover to look as lovely as an outstretched hand. I wanted those books to bring you back.
[Read more…] about How Murakami Saved My Life