Quite a Diverse Choice: Kawabata, Reeve, and Bukowski

My next TBR pile :)

Palm-of-the-Hand Stories by Yasunari Kawabata, Mortal Engines by Philip Reeve, and Post Office by Charles Bukowsi.

I once read another book by Yasunari Kawabata, Thousand Cranes, and although it's a short read (147 pages), finishing this book was not easy and in the end, leaving me instead with this unresolved feeling in the back of my mind. This something, I can't explain it, was left by the shadows of the story itself, but more profoundly felt was from the characters. But this was strangely interlaced with beauty - yes, there was a hidden beauty inside it - an effect perhaps only Kawabata could achieve. 

Somehow, reading Thousand Cranes has become one of those exceptional reading experiences that I would most definitely be delighted to experience again. Which is why, I decided to pick another book of his and the choice went to Palm-of-the-Hand Stories. It is a collection of short stories; which Kawabata mentioned not less remarkable than longer prose fictions - just as well like haiku is no less beautiful than a longer poem. 

I look forward to reading this soon! 

Mortal Engines by Philip Reeve is also equally anticipated. Mostly because it is steampunk, and well yeah there is no need to explain this, but you see, adventure books make up the most of my bookshelves. Some of them sci-fi. Most of them fantasy. Well, they never fail me - and I'm a sucker of another world with foreign elements and systems - an entirely different world like those you can find in games and illustration - which also explains that I'm a sucker of world building - which makes a book way more awesome if it is complemented with a world map. 

Not necessarily though. 

But anyway. 

Mortal Engines belongs to my usual crowd, and is something that you would expect to find in my hands ;)

And.... Post Office. What could I say? This is my first Bukowski book and I think I like it. I think. I just finished part 1 of the book, so I have 4 parts (or 5?) to go, but man. Henry Chinaski fascinates me so much! What in reality is perhaps a dull, boring - although sometimes not but when it's not it's extra unbearable - life, it is never the case with Chinaski. I adore this guy - he curses a lot, boozes a lot, screws around, always finishes his route late, he drags his life day by day but he definitely doesn't take his life so seriously, or perhaps he doesn't even care. Things may get downhill and I will perhaps find myself despise this guy a lot later on, but it's just getting messier and I somehow and somewhat like the way it goes.  

LP Discover Japan! I think I'll still pre-order LP Japan (new edition, to be released in this October if not mistaken) since this one still doesn't completely cover some places in detail.

I'm currently into Japanese literature and look forward to reading more notable works of Japanese authors. So far, my experiences with Japanese literature are still limited to Haruki Murakami, Natsume Soseki, and Yasunari Kawabata.

But I can't just help it.

Will definitely read Yukio Mishima's Sound of Waves soon.

This is Not a Conclusion, But...

I dreamed of someone from the past last night. I sometimes had dreams about him - when other guys rarely (almost never) appear in my dreams, but this one... he does. Not always, not often, but every time I do, in the morning, I always wake up with this lingering feeling of profound longing - this morning is not an exception - which I have come to loathe.

I won't ask "why". Why he appeared in my dreams, a number of times. Why he stays, when I label him as "someone from the past". I have known, and am well aware of it. Of the reasons.

That's because, so many things, feelings, that we ever had in our hearts, were left unsaid. Deserted. Abandoned. Buried inside.

We were, perhaps, too young to understand. To confront our feelings. Unwise enough to think that letting go without sealing anything was wise enough.

Somehow, this keeps haunting me, faithfully. I let a deep corner of my mind being haunted, relished in its bitterness. Yet the whole part of me recognizes the loss, a definite fate that can no longer be disturbed, and my heart cries out for something that I could never have.

And I, as I said, have come to loathe this feeling, all the memories we ever had, my own self for still harboring, even the slightest, hope of encountering a chance to meet this person again someday...

and I hate him. So much. So much so that I want to hurt him so bad. But as I am only a pathetic person, I can only imagine and construct the whole scenarios of hurting him: me being happy in life and showing him how happy I have been, all this time.

Not that it will hurt him anyway. I doubt it.

But we will never know the depth of human's heart; what's affecting, damaging it or how it takes in every situation. This fact I know, simply because people do not know mine.

This is not a conclusion... but I steel myself, in the end, with a decision that I won't, and don't want, ever, to see him again.

And off to my own path.

If we ever cross paths, later, there might be another story.