Dance Dance Dance

Dance Dance Dance
Haruki Murakami
1988, 393 pages

Ok, so usually at the beginning of my reviews I tell you what a book’s about. Here’s the problem: I’m not really sure what the hell happened in this book. All I know is that it was awesome. Like, what was it with that guy in the sheepskin? And the crazy hotel? And how was everyone intrinsically linked to the dead hooker? And how in the end, is this book really just a super-convoluted love story?

None of it makes sense, and it does so in the most wonderful possible way. It is an assault on one’s common sense, and I loved every second of it. Except the dead hooker stuff. The other dead people were okay though.

When I finished this book, I hit Alan with it and asked him how it was possible that he allowed me to live to twenty seven years of age without reading one of Murakami’s books, and he pouted a little bit, because he’s often encouraged me to read some of his works. I immediately went out and picked up Murakami’s most famout work, Norwegian Wood