That’s a lie. I have been ruminating for a year now about my lost second-chance-at-love. I’ve been struggling big-time with so many emotions during these weird pandemic times. Rejoicing in the manifestation of human emotion. Wondering about my attraction to men without women. Embracing my vulnerability and what is seemingly my admission into the “women without men” club. So this author’s melancholic writing style is the perfect match as 2020 comes to a close and my 60th year approaches! Or as the Grinch would put it, "4:00, wallow in self-pity; 4:30, stare into the abyss; 5:00, solve world hunger, tell no one; 5:30, jazzercize; 6:30, dinner with me—I can’t cancel that again; 7:00, wrestle with my self-loathing… I’m booked. Of course, if I bump the loathing to 9, I could still be done in time to lay in bed, stare at the ceiling and slip slowly into madness."
Here’s what Barack Obama had to say: “Haruki Murakami’s Men Without Women examines what happens to characters without important women in their lives; it'll move you and confuse you and sometimes leave you with more questions than answers.” —Barack Obama
* In December, I also read Norwegian Wood and South of the Border West of the Sun by Murakami. Both seemed mildly biographical and featured hauntingly complex female characters, leading me to wonder about the author’s real life relationships with women.
