I have lived in Japan for nearly a decade, during which time I have read dozens of books ON Japan but very little Japanese Literature. The main reason was that having encountered many incidents of shoddy translation I was waiting to read Japanese Literature in Japanese. Unknowing of this wish, my girlfriend kindly sent me this Vintage edition translated by Jay Rubin and as both a 'courtesy' to her and a way to understand her better I decided to give it a read. What I could not have imagined soon became crystal clear, firstly the translation is EXCELLENT, Rubin has done an outstanding job, and secondly, Murakami, as story teller of the first degree. Sure, this simple narrative is neither original or outstanding structurally, but it is in other numerous regards. Murakami's strength as a story-teller is his ability to suck you in and hold you there - front row seats all the way. As the plot unravels before your eyes you feel you know these characters he has drawn, that you know them far beyond the surface of which you have been told, that you know their inner core and their deepest hopes and fears. Because the writing is not unnecessarily uncomplicated, the pages just race by and this fluidity means you can finish this in three good sittings. All this leaves you feeling with a strange sense, of actually having know these characters - who could forget the lasting images of Storm-trooper, Midori et al., and in the end, a sense of loss when the final page comes around. All in all, an excellent novel and one worth reading whether you have an interest in Japan or not - actually that's an interesting disparity worth highlighting, the fact that people often read 'Asian' literature because they have an interest in Asia, but seldom read American Literature because the have an interest in America... Finally as an addendum, it should be pointed out that the late '60s backdrop that this is 'supposedly' set against, is no more than a piece of cloth hung from the ceiling to obscure the mess behind - this reads as absolute contemporary literature and with the exception of the odd 'Peace' or 'Right-on' it has no visible setting, nor leaves no particular after-taste.