Our Man finally got round to finishing reading one of his holiday picks, Haruki Murakami's What I talk about when I talk about running. Well, Our Man didn't actually make it to the end of the memoir. Funny, because it's a slim volume and Our Man likes Murakami and likes the idea of running (sort of) but something happened two-thirds into the race to finish it. Something he thought he'd never say: He got bored with Murakami. Why?
For a personal memoir we learn virtually nothing about Mr M. personally. Does he have kids? Did he fall wildly in love with Mrs M.? Did he dream of being a rock star or a train driver when he was little? We don't know.
Fat is easy to gain and hard to lose. Muscles are hard to gain and easy to lose. No shit, Sherlock.
We do learn that Mr M. is obsessive-compulsive about running and writing. But never why this should be.
Sure, it's a book about running (as a metaphor for writing and life and such) but being told the ins and outs of his injuries and how his knee was giving him jip was as interesting as when your elderly neighbour corners you and does the same. The difference being with Mr M. that you can shut him up when you please.
Pic lifted from the New Yorker lifted from here.