I've reached my 50th year (51st year, for the calendar pedants) without having read Hemingway. I know of Hemingway, I recognised the Hemingway in Woody Allen’s Midnight on Paris, and I know where he fit in the history of English literature. But I’d never read him. I was wandering through a bookshop recently in need of … Continue reading Finally, Hemingway

I've only just discovered Haruki Murakami, thanks to a very good friend who bought me The Elephant Vanishes. Thank goodness it's short stories rather than novel length because I need to cogitate on Murakami. I need to engage with him in slow, small chunks so that I can explore the fragments at my leisure. His … Continue reading Insomnia captured by Murakami