Quote of the Day: Spaghetti Redux

Because we all need a break sometime, and because Zack just told me that the Exalted One was hanging out at the University of Hawaii at Manoa last week . . .

From “The Year of Spaghetti”, by Haruki Murakami, in the Nov. 21, 2005 issue of The New Yorker

Spring, summer, and fall, I cooked and cooked, as if cooking spaghetti were an act of revenge. Like a lonely, jilted girl throwing old love letters into the fireplace, I tossed one handful of spaghetti after another into the pot.

I’d gather up the trampled-down shadows of time, knead them into the shape of a German shepherd, toss them into the roiling water, and sprinkle them with salt. Then I’d hover over the pot, oversized chopsticks in hand, until the timer dinged its plaintive note.

And, now, I end.

(What? That’s it?, loyal blog readers might exclaim. What, you expect self to keep blogging, when self is already late for a dental appointment? Self would have you know, she has a life: a life wherein she works and grades papers and waits for calls from Dearest Mum and watches endless hours of Food Network TV and peruses old New Yorkers for edification of blog readers. Sometimes self imagines blog is like the hungry maw of a gigantic whale, always cruising for more seaweed or baleen or what-have-you. Or perhaps self meant to say that blog reminds her of a shark, one of those predatory hungry creatures, always lurking, waiting for the next blood meal or offering from self’s weary keyboard-tapping fingers . . . )


  1. May 1, 2007 at 2:16 am

    Haruki Murakami, well, he just gets life, doesn’t he? I wish I could read his work in Japanese. His translator is brilliant.

  2. May 1, 2007 at 5:21 am

    Hey, good point! I looked at The New Yorker article, but they don’t say who his translator IS. I’ll ask Zack if HM speaks as good English as he seems to write.

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