Sputnik Sweetheart: A Novel by Haruki Murakami (EPUB)

Description

Part romance, part detective story, Sputnik Sweetheart tells the story of a tangled triangle of uniquely unrequited love.K is madly in love with his best friend, Sumire, but her devotion to a writerly life precludes her from any personal commitments. At least, that is, until she meets an older woman to whom she finds herself irresistibly drawn. When Sumire disappears from an island off the coast of Greece, K is solicited to join the search party—and finds himself drawn back into her world and beset by ominous visions. Subtle and haunting, Sputnik Sweetheart is a profound meditation on human longing.

User’s Reviews

Editorial Reviews: Review “Grabs you from its opening lines. . . . [Murakami’s] never written anything more openly emotional.” —Los Angeles Magazine “Murakami is a genius.” —Chicago Tribune “Murakami has an unmatched gift for turning psychological metaphors into uncanny narratives.” –The New York Times Book Review “An agonizing, sweet story about the power and the pain of love. . . . Immensely deepened by perfect little images that leave much to be filled in by the reader’s heart or eye.” –The Baltimore Sun “[Murakami belongs] in the topmost rank of writers of international stature.” –Newsday “Murakami’s true achievement lies in the humor and vision he brings to even the most despairing moments.” –The New Yorker “Perhaps better than any contemporary writer, [Murakami] captures and lays bare the raw human emotion of longing.” –BookPage “Murakami . . . has a deep interest in the alienation of self, which lifts [Sputnik Sweetheart] into both fantasy and philosophy.” –San Francisco Chronicle “Not just a great Japanese writer but a great writer, period.” –Los Angeles Times Book Review From the Inside Flap Haruki Murakami, the internationally bestselling author of Norwegian Wood and The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, plunges us into an urbane Japan of jazz bars, coffee shops, Jack Kerouac, and the Beatles to tell this story of a tangled triangle of uniquely unrequited loves.A college student, identified only as ?K,? falls in love with his classmate, Sumire. But devotion to an untidy writerly life precludes her from any personal commitments?until she meets Miu, an older and much more sophisticated businesswoman. When Sumire disappears from an island off the coast of Greece, ?K? is solicited to join the search party and finds himself drawn back into her world and beset by ominous, haunting visions. A love story combined with a detective story, Sputnik Sweetheart ultimately lingers in the mind as a profound meditation on human longing. From the Back Cover Haruki Murakami, the internationally bestselling author of “Norwegian Wood and “The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, plunges us into an urbane Japan of jazz bars, coffee shops, Jack Kerouac, and the Beatles to tell this story of a tangled triangle of uniquely unrequited loves. A college student, identified only as “K,” falls in love with his classmate, Sumire. But devotion to an untidy writerly life precludes her from any personal commitments-until she meets Miu, an older and much more sophisticated businesswoman. When Sumire disappears from an island off the coast of Greece, “K” is solicited to join the search party and finds himself drawn back into her world and beset by ominous, haunting visions. A love story combined with a detective story, Sputnik Sweetheart ultimately lingers in the mind as a profound meditation on human longing. About the Author Born in Kyoto, Japan, in 1949, Haruki Murakami grew up in Kobe and now lives near Tokyo. The most recent of his many honors is the Yomiuri Literary Prize, whose previous recipients include Yukio Mishima, Kenzaburo Oe, and Kobo Abe. His work has been translated into moer than fifty languages. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1In the spring of her twenty-second year, Sumire fell in love for the first time in her life. An intense love, a veritable tornado sweeping across the plains-flattening everything in its path, tossing things up in the air, ripping them to shreds, crushing them to bits. The tornado’s intensity doesn’t abate for a second as it blasts across the ocean, laying waste to Angkor Wat, incinerating an Indian jungle, tigers and all, transforming itself into a Persian desert sandstorm, burying an exotic fortress city under a sea of sand. In short, a love of truly monumental proportions. The person she fell in love with happened to be seventeen years older than Sumire. And was married. And, I should add, was a woman. This is where it all began, and where it all wound up. Almost.At the time, Sumire-Violet in Japanese-was struggling to become a writer. No matter how many choices life might bring her way, it was novelist or nothing. Her resolve was a regular Rock of Gibraltar. Nothing could come between her and her faith in literature.After she graduated from a public high school in Kanagawa Prefecture, she entered the liberal arts department of a cozy little private college in Tokyo. She found the college totally out of touch, a lukewarm, dispirited place, and she loathed it-and found her fellow students (which would include me, I’m afraid) hopelessly dull, second-rate specimens. Unsurprisingly, then, just before her junior year, she just up and quit. Staying there any longer, she concluded, was a waste of time. I think it was the right move, but if I can be allowed a mediocre generalization, don’t pointless things have a place, too, in this far-from-perfect world? Remove everything pointless from an imperfect life, and it’d lose even its imperfection.Sumire was a hopeless romantic, set in her ways-a bit innocent, to put a nice spin on it. Start her talking, and she’d go on nonstop, but if she was with someone she didn’t get along with-most people in the world, in other words-she barely opened her mouth. She smoked too much, and you could count on her to lose her ticket every time she rode the train. She’d get so engrossed in her thoughts at times that she’d forget to eat, and she was as thin as one of those war orphans in an old Italian movie-like a stick with eyes. I’d love to show you a photo of her, but I don’t have any. She detested having her photograph taken-no desire to leave behind for posterity a Portrait of the Artist as a Young (Wo)Man. If there were a photograph of Sumire taken at that time, I know it would be a valuable record of how special certain people are.I’m getting the order of events mixed up. The woman Sumire fell in love with was named Miu. At least that’s what everyone called her. I don’t know her real name, a fact that caused problems later on, but again I’m getting ahead of myself. Miu was Korean by nationality, but until she decided to study Korean when she was in her midtwenties, she didn’t speak a word of the language. She was born and raised in Japan and studied at a music academy in France, so she was fluent in both French and English in addition to Japanese. She always dressed well, in a refined way, with expensive yet modest accessories, and she drove a twelve-cylinder navy-blue Jaguar.The first time Sumire met Miu, she talked to her about Jack Kerouac’s novels. Sumire was absolutely nuts about Kerouac. She always had her literary Idol of the Month, and at that point it happened to be the out-of-fashion Kerouac. She carried a dog-eared copy of On the Road or Lonesome Traveler stuck in her coat pocket, thumbing through it every chance she got. Whenever she ran across lines she liked, she’d mark them in pencil and commit them to memory like they were Holy Writ. Her favorite lines were from the fire lookout section of Lonesome Traveler. Kerouac spent three lonely months in a cabin on top of a high mountain, working as a fire lookout. Sumire especially liked this part:No man should go through life without once experiencing healthy, even bored solitude in the wilderness, finding himself depending solely on himself and thereby learning his true and hidden strength.”Don’t you just love it?” she said. “Every day you stand on top of a mountain, make a three-hundred-sixty-degree sweep, checking to see if there’re any fires. And that’s it. You’re done for the day. The rest of the time you can read, write, whatever you want. At night scruffy bears hang around your cabin. That’s the life! Compared with that, studying literature in college is like chomping down on the bitter end of a cucumber.””OK,” I said, “but someday you’ll have to come down off the mountain.” As usual, my practical, humdrum opinions didn’t faze her.Sumire wanted to be like a character in a Kerouac novel-wild, cool, dissolute. She’d stand around, hands shoved deep in her coat pockets, her hair an uncombed mess, staring vacantly at the sky through her black plastic-frame Dizzy Gillespie glasses, which she wore despite her twenty-twenty vision. She was invariably decked out in an oversize herringbone coat from a secondhand store and a pair of rough work boots. If she’d been able to grow a beard, I’m sure she would have.Sumire wasn’t exactly a beauty. Her cheeks were sunken, her mouth a little too wide. Her nose was on the small side and upturned. She had an expressive face and a great sense of humor, though she hardly ever laughed out loud. She was short, and even in a good mood she talked like she was half a step away from picking a fight. I never knew her to use lipstick or eyebrow pencil, and I have my doubts that she even knew bras came in different sizes. Still, Sumire had something special about her, something that drew people to her. Defining that special something isn’t easy, but when you gazed into her eyes, you could always find it, reflected deep down inside.I might as well just come right out and say it. I was in love with Sumire. I was attracted to her from the first time we talked, and soon there was no turning back. For a long time she was the only thing I could think about. I tried to tell her how I felt, but somehow the feelings and the right words couldn’t connect. Maybe it was for the best. If I had been able to tell her my feelings, she would have just laughed at me.While Sumire and I were friends, I went out with two or three other girls. It’s not that I don’t remember the exact number. Two, three-it depends on how you count. Add to this the girls I slept with once or twice, and the list would be a little longer. Anyhow, while I made love to these other girls, I thought about Sumire. Or at least, thoughts of her grazed a corner of my mind. I imagined I was holding her. Kind of a caddish thing to do, but I couldn’t help myself.Let me get back to how Sumire and Miu met.Miu had heard of Jack Kerouac and had a vague sense that he was a novelist of some kind. What kind of novelist, though, she couldn’t recall.”Kerouac . . . Hmm . . . Wasn’t he a Sputnik?”Sumire couldn’t figure out what she meant. Knife and fork poised in midair, she gave it some thought. “Sputnik? You mean the first satellite the Soviets sent up, in the fifties? Jack Kerouac was an American novelist. I guess they do overlap in terms of generation. . . .””Isn’t that what they called the writers back then?” Miu asked. She traced a circle on the table with her fingertip, as if rummaging through some special jar full of memories.”Sputnik . . . ?””The name of a literary movement. You know-how they classify writers in various schools of writing. Like Shiga Naoya was in the White Birch School.”Finally it dawned on Sumire. “Beatnik!”Miu lightly dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Beatnik-Sputnik. I never can remember those kinds of terms. It’s like the Kenmun Restoration or the Treaty of Rapallo. Ancient history.”A gentle silence descended on them, suggestive of the flow of time.”The Treaty of Rapallo?” Sumire asked.Miu smiled. A nostalgic, intimate smile, like a treasured old possession pulled out of the back of a drawer. Her eyes narrowed in an utterly charming way. She reached out and, with her long, slim fingers, gently mussed Sumire’s already tousled hair. It was such a sudden yet natural gesture that Sumire could only return the smile.Ever since that day, Sumire’s private name for Miu was Sputnik Sweetheart. Sumire loved the sound of it. It made her think of Laika, the dog. The man-made satellite streaking soundlessly across the blackness of outer space. The dark, lustrous eyes of the dog gazing out the tiny window. In the infinite loneliness of space, what could the dog possibly be looking at?This Sputnik conversation took place at a wedding reception for Sumire’s cousin at a posh hotel in Akasaka. Sumire wasn’t particularly close to her cousin; in fact, they didn’t get along at all. She’d just as soon be tortured as attend one of these receptions, but she couldn’t back out of this one. She and Miu were seated next to each other at one of the tables. Miu didn’t go into all the details, but it seemed she’d tutored Sumire’s cousin on piano-or something along those lines-when she was taking the entrance exams for the university music department. It wasn’t a long or very close relationship, clearly, but Miu felt obliged to attend.In the instant Miu touched her hair, Sumire fell in love, like she was crossing a field and bang! a bolt of lightning zapped her right in thehead. Something akin to an artistic revelation. Which is why, at that point, it didn’t matter to Sumire that the person she fell in love with happened to be a woman.I don’t think Sumire ever had what you’d call a lover. In high school she had a few boyfriends, guys she’d go to movies with, go swimming with. I couldn’t picture any of those relations ever getting very deep. Sumire was too focused on becoming a novelist to really fall for anybody. If she did experience sex–or something close to it–in high school, I’m sure it would have been less out of sexual desire or love than literary curiosity.”To be perfectly frank, sexual desire has me baffled,” Sumire told me once, making a sober face. This was just before she quit college, I believe; she’d downed five banana daiquiris and was pretty drunk. “You know-how it all comes about. What’s your take on it?””Sexual desire’s not something you understand,” I said, giving my usual middle-of-the-road opinion. “It’s just there.”She scrutinized me for a while, like I was some machine run by a heretofore unheard-of power source. Losing interest, she stared up at the ceiling, and the conversation petered out. No use talking to him about that, she must have decided.Sumire was born in Chigasaki. Her home was near the seashore, and she grew up with the dry sound of sand-filled wind blowing against her windows. Her father ran a dental clinic in Yokohama. He was remarkably handsome, his well-formed nose reminding you of Gregory Peck in Spellbound. Sumire didn’t inherit that handsome nose, nor, according to her, did her brother. Sumire found it amazing that the genes that produced that nose had disappeared. If they really were buried forever at the bottom of the gene pool, the world was a sadder place. That’s how wonderful this nose was.Sumire’s father was an almost mythic figure to the women in the Yokohama area who needed dental care. In the examination room he always wore a surgical cap and large mask, so the only thing the patient could see was a pair of eyes and ears. Even so, it was obvious how attractive he was. His beautiful, manly nose swelled suggestively under the mask, making his female patients blush. In an instant-whether their dental plan covered the costs was beside the point-they fell in love.Sumire’s mother passed away of a congenital heart defect when she was just thirty-one. Sumire hadn’t quite turned three. The only memory she had of her mother was a vague one, of the scent of her skin. Just a couple of photographs of her remained-a posed photo taken at her wedding and a snapshot taken right after Sumire was born. Sumire used to pull out the photo album and gaze at the pictures. Sumire’s mother was-to put it mildly-a completely forgettable person. A short, humdrum hairstyle, clothes that made you wonder what she could have been thinking, an ill-at-ease smile. If she’d taken one step back, she would have melted right into the wall. Sumire was determined to brand her mother’s face on her memory. Then she might someday meet her in her dreams. They’d shake hands, have a nice chat. But things weren’t that easy. Try as she might to remember her mother’s face, it soon faded. Forget about dreams-if Sumire had passed her mother on the street, in broad daylight, she wouldn’t have known her.Sumire’s father hardly ever spoke of his late wife. He wasn’t a talkative man to begin with, and in all aspects of life-like they were some kind of mouth infection he wanted to avoid catching-he never talked about his feelings. Sumire had no memory of ever asking her father about her dead mother. Except for once, when she was still very small; for some reason she asked him, “What was my mother like?” She remembered this conversation very clearly.Her father looked away and thought for a moment before replying. “She was good at remembering things,” he said. “And she had nice handwriting.”A strange way of describing a person. Sumire was waiting expectantly, snow-white first page of her notebook open, for nourishing words that could have been a source of warmth and comfort-a pillar, an axis, to help prop up her uncertain life here on this third planet from the sun. Her father should have said something that his young daughter could have held on to. But Sumire’s handsome father wasn’t going to speak those words, the very words she needed most.Sumire’s father remarried when she was six, and two years later her younger brother was born. Her new mother wasn’t pretty either. On top of which she wasn’t so good at remembering things, and her handwriting wasn’t any great shakes. She was a kind and fair person, though. That was a lucky thing for little Sumire, the brand-new stepdaughter. No, lucky isn’t the right word. After all, her father had chosen the woman. He might not have been the ideal father, but when it came to choosing a mate, he knew what he was doing. Read more

Reviews from Amazon users which were colected at the time this book was published on the website:

⭐“[D]on’t pointless things have a place, too, in this far-from-perfect world? Remove everything pointless from an imperfect life, and it’d even lose its imperfection.”The prose of this book is marked with a feverish, dreamily ethereal passion. As its poetry spills from the soul in an excitable, delighted aliveness, filling each word with a spellbinding potency that shimmers. It is about being forlornly lonely, untethered at sea, waiting to find a companion, which is what Sputnik translates to in Russian, on your journey of solitude. It is about feeling deeply, fervently in love with someone’s brain and being without that love being returned romantically. However, in that exacted is the fact that desire is different than the torpedo of love that immerses one so fully and acutely in another. Along its journey, it’s also tinged and colored with a magical realism that points to a different side or dimension, a getting lost in the deep throes of a dreamworld only reserved for you and anyone else you want to believe will be there.“Still the basic questions tugged at me: Who am I? What am I searching for? Where am I headed?”Sumire, a current Jack Kerouac aficionado for the ways his stories get lost in wildness and wilderness, is a Japanese woman who has dropped out of school to become a novelist. She eats, breathes, sleeps her art and own trails and trials of fiction, almost wanting to become one with the worlds and souls she inhabits. K, a fellow book lover, encourages her do so in enrapturing enthuse. As he is one of her closest, most platonically intimate friends, her intellectual stimulant. Additionally, he serves as the narrator of the story, who sees into Sumire’s greatest faults and virtues. Her greatest pains and unconventional beauties. He comes to hopelessly fall in love with her even: it being hopeless because it is unrequited, ardent passion boiling up in his own soul and self that can never be recovered or retrieved the same as it was found.“ “There’s a great line by Groucho Marx,” I said. “ ‘She’s so in love with me she doesn’t know anything. That’s why she’s so in love with me.’ ” ”However, their relationship is about to be even more thrown off balance into a temporarily tenuous place as Miu, an older, breathtakingly beautiful woman, an unstable element, enters into the picture and captures Sumire’s heart and soul, seizes her more mindful rationality, allowing it to be discarded in favor of the emotional whirlpool she is delightedly being pulled into. As she finds herself fully, overwhelmingly submerged in Miu. Like she is another form of fiction Sumire is trying to figure out and understand, working to get to the heart of like a deconstructing of a nonsensical, enigmatic whole.“The beach was a little too quiet for a person to visit alone, a little too beautiful. It made me imagine a certain way of dying.”This story is hauntingly transfixing. It was just the ending and parts of the latter half that I had mixed feelings about and am still little by little coming to terms with, hence the four stars, as a part of me enjoyed how innovatively fresh it felt in the way that it pondered and unraveled questions of existence, but another part of me felt it went in a direction in which I felt I was gripping in the shadowy darkness of abstraction a bit. But in that process can come insightful, thought-provoking moments, I just found I like to be grounded in something tangible, too. So I think the two can be mixed in a delectable combination.“ “Being all alone is like the feeling you get when you stand at the mouth of a large river on a rainy evening and watch the water flow into sea.”Other than that I became gloriously a part of this story that reached me evocatively, breathing a sweet, complexly composed perfume of the existential questions that alternatively plague us and stir us on our way to simultaneously understanding and never fully understanding

⭐I’ll be up-front: this isn’t the best of Murakami’s novels. That said, it’s well worth reading. What perhaps sets it apart from classics like “The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle” or “A Wild Sheep Chase” is that it’s a short novel that takes a lot of time simmering. Murakami lays out a very Murakamian love triangle in which the love is almost entirely unrequited. The narrator is K, a young grade-school teacher, who’s in love with Sumire, an aspiring novelist. Sumire loves talking with K–they are deeply connected as friends–but she has no romantic feelings for him. She then meets Miu, an older woman, at a wedding, and becomes her personal secretary. Sumire quickly learns that she has intense physical feelings for Miu, who’s married (and heterosexual, though she stopped having sex a decade ago due to a frightening incident). Murakami spends a lot of time developing Sumire’s character. She’s a somewhat bohemian type, averse to full-time work because it will get in the way of her writing. She writes a lot but none of it is particularly good. She begins working part-time for Miu because of her physical feelings for her, and at this point Sumire begins to change. She dresses better, travels more widely, eats and drinks well, and learns Italian. The book blasts off when Sumire and Miu travel to a Greek island to stay for a few weeks. This is where all of Murakami’s themes start to emerge. There are references to cats and wells and music. But this is most truly a novel about doppelgangers: the author explores how our selves split in two. There are the halves containing our deepest, primal desires, which we purposely bury; and the boring selves that go about daily routines. Murakami, in typical Murakami fashion, makes these split personalities real. While K is somehow able to harness his desires, Sumire’s leads her into…another dimension? And the act of Miu seeing her doppelganger causes a marked physical change in her. The book is almost a literary equivalent of David Lynch’s cinematic exploration of doppelgangers and twinning. Murakami is also like the Lynch of “Blue Velvet” in luxuriating in the simple details of his characters’ lives–eating, reading the paper, staring up at the stars–and juxtaposing them with the hidden depths that can be alluring and/or terrifying. The author’s characters seem so human, so universal, that I sometimes can’t believe I’m reading about a Japanese man or woman on the other side of the world. And he’s willing to explore ideas in ways that no one else is. With a lesser writer, this novel would’ve gone off the rails, but Murakami uses his narrator to hold things together. By the end, all of the characters are irrevocably changed, yet K manages to go on with his life as before. About midway through “Sputnik Sweetheart,” while Miu and Sumire are in Greece, Murakami starts adding layer upon layer to the text until every detail hums with significance. Many of the events may seem disconnected, but I trust in their meaning even if it might take me a while to unpack it. Like other Murakami books, this one will haunt me for awhile.

⭐I gave this book to someone, as a gift, and he enjoyed it immensely.

⭐”Sputnik Sweetheart”, by Haruki Murakami.Sumire feels at odds with the world. Her only passion in life to date has been writing though she has had almost no success with it either. K, Sumire’s former college classmate and only friend is her only real connection in the world. K has fallen in love with Sumire however the feeling isn’t mutual as Sumire has never had that kind of desire for anyone that is until she meets Miu. Sumire takes a job with Miu that eventually leads them to a vacation on an island off the coast of Greece from which Sumire disappears. With no one else to turn to Miu contacts K and he heads off to help in the search…”Sputnik Sweetheart” is my fifth Murakami experience. ”

⭐” is still my favorite but “Sputnik Sweetheart”, is a good short read from Murakami and captures many of the elements and themes that are prevalent throughout Murakami’s works.The Good: Murakami’s writing always draws me in. I always enjoy the characters, the story, the way as the reader you are privy to Japanese culture in small servings, and the always prevalent spiritual and metaphysical elements than run rampant in Murakami’s stories. These elements allow him to take what would normally be a relatively simple plot and turn it into a story with depth.The Bad: Nothing memorable.Overall: If you are a fan of Murakami’s other work you will probably enjoy Sputnik Sweetheart as well. If you haven’t tried Murakami before this may not be a bad place to start because it is one of his shorter stories.

⭐Rather like the man’s breakthrough (and most popular?) novel, Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami’s 1999 short novel (running to just over 200 pages) could be viewed as one of his most conventional, with the author’s penchant for widespread surrealism being toned down rather. That said, the tale here of protagonist, teacher (and narrator) K’s yearning for a love he can’t have, of aspiring author and (typical of this author) eccentric 22-year old Sumire and K’s reflections on his own troubled and lonely existence, despite being delivered via some of Murakami’s most moving and straightforward prose, has elements of other-worldliness (or perhaps that should be parallel-worldliness) baked in. The novel’s superficial ‘conventionality’ might also appear to extend to its plot, as Sumire and her object of desire, the older, glamorous woman, Miu, holiday on a Greek island, before Sumire mysteriously disappears, but (as might be expected) Murakami does not use the plot device to drive a traditional thriller narrative, instead using it to further explore K’s own cogitations on love, desire and his own place in the world. The author also gives us a touchingly written coda to the story, involving K’s relationship with one of his pupils, with its obviously (as regards K) self-referential implications.

⭐This is the 2nd Haruki Murakami book I have read, the first being South of the Border West of the Sun which is a beautifully written and engaging. I had high hopes for Sputnik Sweetheart and for the most part I enjoyed it – right up until the crucial part of the storyline, from there it just seemed to lose it – at least it did for me.The last couple of chapters – in my opinion – pointless and I would have preferred the story to have concluded after the Narrator “K” left Greece.I will read more of Haruki’s books as I find his writing style flowing and absorbing but I after Sputnik I admit that it’s with trepidation that I will start the next one I have lined up which is IQ84

⭐Murakami is an excellent writer and I always enjoy his books. The weirdness tends to frustrate me a little, but I enjoyed this story a lot, even though it descended into a kind of dreamworld about halfway through. For me, his best book is Norwegian Wood, which is straight mainstream, but this one shared a lot of the similar themes and ideas while crossing that boundary from reality to non-reality. Still, I’ll definitely read more of his books and I would recommend this one, particularly if you’re a fan. It’s also quite short, so a good introduction to his style if you’ve not read any of his work before.

⭐One of Alastair Campbell’s top five books of all time (but don’t let that put you off it really is rather good) I think the extra length of Norwegian Wood is a strength because Sputnik Sweetheart never seems to achieve the same dramatic weight as that novel. It is of course wonderfully written by Murakami and is a heartbreaking study of loneliness with the three central character drifting past each other, either disappearing into loneliness or expressing physical love through the aid of a doppleganger. I liked how it wasn’t the narrators story yet he came to dominate the proceedings after a time.

⭐A wonderfully written book by one of my new favourite writers. The exact details of what happens to certain characters are unclear, but the sense of what one can take from the story is distinct, mainly due to the clarity of Murakami’s prose. Recommended.

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