Murakami has been wrecked for me by my incarceration there. I wrecked it for myself. I can feel my lips curling reading it, knowing the translator and the good old boy crap he has written and the boots he has licked to get where he is. The original lurks pained (but self-indulgent, which I never thought before, which hurts) in the room with that vain hack of a jester in a baseball cap guarding the door. This is the fourth time I have tried to get through to the part where Philip Gabriel will pitch in and fix things. It’s agony.