2013
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The year is 1984. Aomame sits in a taxi on the expressway in Tokyo. Her work is not the kind which can be discussed in public but she is in a hurry to carry out an assignment and, with the traffic at a stand-still, the driver proposes a solution. She agrees, but as a result of her actions starts to feel increasingly detached from the real world. She has been on a top-secret mission, and her next job will lead her to encounter the apparently superhuman founder of a religious cult. Meanwhile, Tengo is leading a nondescript life but wishes to become a writer. He inadvertently becomes involved in a strange affair surrounding a literary prize to which a mysterious seventeen-year-old girl has submitted her remarkable first novel. It seems to be based on her own experiences and moves readers in unusual ways. Can her story really be true? Aomame and Tengo's stories influence one another, at times by accident and at times intentionally, as the two come closer and closer to intertwining. As 1Q84 accelerates towards its conclusion, both are pursued by persons and forces they do not know and cannot understand. As they begin to decipher more about the strange world into which they have slipped, so they sense their destinies converging. What they cannot know is whether they will find one another before they are themselves found. 1Q84 is a magnificent and fully-imagined work of fiction - a thriller, a love-story and a mind-bending ode to George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four. It is a world from which the reader emerges stunned and altered.
Utgivelsesår 2011
Format Innbundet
ISBN13 9781846555497
EAN 9781846555497
Språk Engelsk
Utgave 1
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This reading was slow and not exactly engaging from the very beginning but it gets better and as it turns out is a love story, told in the strangest way. Murakami writes it well and the way he inserts magical elements is so gentle that you might start wondering if there are actually two moons up there on the sky at some point. Magic realism, crime and love in one same book. The end does not make justice to the story though.
Jeg har kjempet litt for å komme gjennom disse bøkene, og har lest flere andre og bedre bøker inn i mellom. Murakami klarer ikke å gjøre meg nysgjerrig i fortellingen eller det underliggende plottet. Jeg klarer heller ikke å blir engasjert i bokens hovedpersoner.
«That's fine, too,» Tamaru said. «Nothing could be better than not firing it. We're drawing close to the end of the twentieth century. Things are different from back in Chekhov's time (...) Somehow the world survived the Nazis, the atomic bomb, and modern music.»
Everyone, deep in their hearts, is waiting for the end of the world to come.
There is nothing in this world that never takes a step outside a person's heart.
There was an inexhaustible source of clouds in some land far to the north. Decisive people, minds fixed on the task, clothed in thick, gray uniforms, working silently from morning to night to make clouds, like bees make honey, spiders make webs, and war makes widows.
The ones who did it can always rationalize their actions and even forget what they did. They can turn away from things they don't want to see. But the surviving victims can never forget. They can't turn away. Their memories are passed on from parent to child. That's what the world is, after all: an endless battle of contrasting memories.