Among the men in white I walked
Seven and hundreds of times I walked.
First, I crawled;
Then, I marched
And at last, I dead-walked;
A humming corpse driven by the crowds
Around the black house of the men in white.
Cracked feet, skin dry
Bleeding feet, bleeding eyes—
Eyes of the whites studied me
For I must be among the black maids;
I must walk as they walk.
Sing, songs of the dead whites,
As they sing
I must follow.
Free countries believe they could offer equal society rights as long as the country is one hundred present neutral in matters of religion. But religious countries have to adapt a religious system (whether be Sharia or any that are based on religious laws). Religion quite clearly states of the importance of following God’s written words. In the first countries, man might feel the freedom to be, but he often feels the disconnection of his reality. The materialistic of his society, a contractual society that smells like cigarettes and capitalist junk food. In the latter countries, man feels no differences between himself and those around him, but he suffers from the loss of freedom of choice. People react differently to their countries; Some might ridicule both, some would rather freedom over anything, some think that a theocratical system is what will save us. Only few, however, can understand what it cost to have a civilization and to distinguish their own morals out of what have already been set to them, only few can understand the disparity of being a woman living in any country. Marjane Satrapi is one of these rare people…
I admit it, I am finding myself out of words. I have been staring for hours at Murakami’s book covers, trying to read back his quotes. Just another fail attempt to get me inside the world of Haruki Murakami.
In Murakami’s world, there’re no such things as barriers or roofs, Murakami doesn’t write to put himself inside any scientific life law. He doesn’t care to send a moral message, God forbidden, or even to clarify himself in words. He is the master of creating an absurdist world, an absurdist world where dreams and reality are no longer separated and where our consciousness, understanding of life and our being are all a mere metaphor.
Murakami is one of most famous Japanese writers; just type Best Japanese Novels in Google, and you’ll get a long list of Murakami’s books stuffed around few other writers. He wrote in Japanese and translated so many English written books to Japanese since he has been affected by many foreign writers and that made him almost always accused of being too international and not Japanese enough. A thing that I used to struggle with when I first started reading his works; I wanted to know some Japanese manners, street names and culture, things other than the characters hard to pronounce names; I wanted geographical, historical, cultural themes of Japan other than the subways and the isolated life patterns, something more than foreign writers’ quotes, but I couldn’t find any of that. You see Murakami isn’t your type of tourist guide; he is not going to make you cry over the Hiroshima bomb or make you want to visit Japan, he won’t care to teach you few Japanese vocabularies or even clarify his culture to you; what he will do instead is; testing you, testing your morals and your understanding of life or anything at all. The characters in his novels, I found, are always looking for some life’s meaning, for love, a belief, they are lonely individuals who seem to be experiencing life differently.
Dostoevsky, the famous Russian writer whom we all have heard of..and if you are like me. Well, then he’s also a writer whom you have tried to read his works only to find out that he was way over your head and decided not to go back to him again. Dostoevsky has been that person to me. I tried to read Crime and Punishment long time ago and hated how long and detailed it was, I abandoned it -shame on me-, and never gave myself the pleasure of enjoying a sophisticated inner piece of literature ever again. Only recently, I got back to my sanity and thought maybe.. maybe Notes From The Underground will make me understand the whole fuzz about Dostoevsky. I began reading, you see, out of curiosity and found myself not satisfied; I was hungry for more.