When I was little, I would feel sad when I finished a book, knowing that I would never hear more about those fascinating people and their adventures. At some point this melancholy sort of faded away; probably not long after reading became homework. Somehow in the maelstrom of Murakami’s rhythmic words, nostalgic themes and total disregard for the expected, the little me is lured back to the fireside to hear the tale. And he’s very sad when the story’s over.