Japanese books about nothing
I adore Japanese fiction. The Eastern way, where feelings are guarded deeply but explored over internal monologues. There's a resonance there that vibrates deep in my bones.
During my youth's wild, insatiable days, I devoured an incessant diet of animes and mangas, as if they were the antidote for a poisoned existence. And then, I stumbled upon the literary geniuses: Haruki Murakami, Hiromi Kawakami, and the enigmatic Banana Hashimoto.
Their slice-of-life tales, a bizarre dance of nothingness and existential revelations, bestow upon me a tranquility, a respite from the chaotic world that suffocates the spirit. It's a sanctuary, an escape, a place where I find a peace I can't uncover anywhere else.