Stretched out on the backseat, long and stiff as a dead fish, was a Remington automatic shotgun. Its shells rustled dryly in the pocket of my wife's windbreaker. We had two black ski masks in the glove compartment. Why my wife owned a shotgun, I had no idea. Or ski masks. Neither of us had ever skied. But she didn't explain and I didn't ask. Married life is weird, I felt.
If "The Second Bakery Attack" by Haruki Murakami is not the most perfect illustration of a marriage, than I hope it's close.
Here is the truth about Murakami, whether it makes sense or not: Reading "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle" two years ago made me feel alive. Reading his words gives me this same sort of 'just after a good storm' feeling as when I watch "Sunshine" or "Primer." I haven't the faintest idea why that is.
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