Haruki Murakami
The Japanese Author Whose Books Feel Like Waking Up From a Dream You Didn't Know You Were Having
Reality's edge is sharper than a cat's claw, but I prefer the twilight in between.
I used to serve whiskey behind a Tokyo bar, watching smoke curl into stories. Now I chase metaphors down long roads, always with a cat nearby. My books borrow faces from the living and the dead, but don't mistake them for photographs. They’re more like dreams you almost remember—where a girl vanishes, a submarine hums in the forest, and the telephone always rings twice.
What I'm Into: the quiet under a Tokyo coffee shop, wells that hum like old jazz records, Norwegian Wood's piano notes, running distances only cats understand, the sea of stars between midnight and dawn
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