Pinball, 1973

I first read Pinball, 1973 in, it must have been, about 1990. (I have a vivid memory, probably false, of reading it on sunny day in an apartment in Higashi Murayama City.) I didn't hate it, but it didn't make me a die-hard Murakami fan either. Somehow, however, over the years, in my memory, the book got worse and worse. That, coupled with the fact that the book's author doesn't seem to think very highly of it either—Murakami refuses to authorize a new English translation—convinced me that it was a real piece of crap. It's not, actually. It's an entertaining light read, though of course it's not a wart on Wind-up Bird's ass, I'm looking forward to the day when, having worked my way through the years, I get back to that, Murakami's masterpiece,