I went to Europe with two books in the backpack. “The perks of being a wallflower” of Stephen Chbosky and “After Dark” of Murakami. The one I started first was the one of Murakami. It is a book that takes you through the life of many characters in common. It kind of remind me of Iñarritu movies like “Babel” where every character leads you to other and their stories somehow are interlaced.
That’s how After Dark is; presenting the characters with something in common; a moment. I wouldn’t say it is one of my favorites of Murakami but I liked it. Everything happens in one night. The persons, the conversations, the memories… one night. In the darkest moment of the day and in the moment where most of the people sleep. In After Dark, Murakami comes back with all that music and movie culture that makes you listen while you are reading.
My literature professor told me that the book are meant to be read and but that you can also write on them. You can underline what you like the most, a phrase, a dream, something that caught your attention. I like to do that because when I read that book again I can see what I used to liked, I can add more things, I can see if I change somehow on my taste, or on the things I used to find interesting.
So, here it is what I underline on After Dark:
Even at a time like this, the street is bright enough and filled with people coming and going-people with places to go and people with no place to go; people with a purpose and people with no purpose; people trying to hold time back and people trying to urge it forward.
If you really want to know something, you have to be willing to pay the price.
The first time I heard it, I felt the scales fall from my eyes. That’s it, I thought. That’s the instrument for me. The trombone and me: it was a meeting arranged by destiny.
Time moves in its own special way in the middle of the night.
I was too young to understand music.
The silence is so deep it hurts our ears.
I’m just stumbling around all the time in my own narrow little world.
I can’t understand nothingness.
It still seems more natural to me to think that once you’re dead , there’s nothing.
That people’s memories are maybe the fuel they burn to stay alive.