Nothing gets between me and my Murakami

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The rest of my to-be-read pile is on  hold as I cart Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and his Years of Pilgrimage around town with me.

Detailed thoughts about the book later this week but so far I will say that my man Murakami has seen right into my soul and described my greatest fear:

But when it came to Tsukuru himself, there was not one single quality he possessed that was worth bragging about or showing off to others. At least that was how he viewed himself. Everything about him was middling, pallid, lacking in color.

Back to reading.

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