Jag håller på att röra om lite här på bloggen så därför är ordningen därefter. Hoppas på att få ordning på det så snart som möjligt. Har dock inte riktig klarhet i vad jag vill göra för förändringar så vi får se vad som händer.

Men det var inte det jag skulle skriva om, utan boken jag läser just nu. Eftersom jag för ett par veckor sedan såg färdigt på andra säsongen av Game of Thrones och kände att jag inte ritkigt fått nog köpte jag boken. Den första boken i serien som TV-serien är baserad på. Jag har någonstans alltid haft en plats för fantasy i mitt hjärta, men har faktiskt aldrig riktigt tagit mig igenom någon bokserie. Detta beror delvis på att de som rekommenderas är på engelska och jag känner (även om jag inte anser mig dålig på engelska) att jag inte får ut allt ur meningarna jag läser som de ska förmedla.

På grund av detta blev jag mycket glad när jag fann att dessa böcker av George R.R. Martin fanns på svenska. Hittills tycker jag också att serien är mycket lik boken, men eftersom jag inte kommit så långt kan detta såklart komma att ändras. Men jag ser mycket fram emot att ha dessa böcker framför mig!

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

Haruki Murakami skapar stor konst av fritt flytande fantasier och drömska associationer. Den 15-årige pojken, som kallar sig Kafka, rymmer hemifrån och bosätter sig i ett bibliotek. Där träffar han en mycket äldre bibliotekarie som blir hans älskarinna. I en parallellhandling får vi träffa en gammal man som kan tala med katter och möta den rödklädde eleganten Johnnie Walker (från whiskeyflaskan) och överste Sanders (från Kentucky Fried Chicken). (Källa)

Handling:

I Tokyos förorter arbetar fyra kvinnor nattskiftet på en fabrik som tillverkar färdigpacketerade luncher. Tyngda av sysslor och stora skulder och isolerade från män och barn drömmer de om en väg ut ur den återvändsgränd som deras liv utgör.

En ung mor bland dem brister till slut och stryper sin otrogne, spelberoende man och erkänner sen sitt brott för Masako, den närmsta av hennes kolleger. Av skäl som bara hon själv känner till, går Masako med på att hjälpa sin vän, och ber de andra medarbetarna om hjälp att stycka och göra sig av med kroppen. Kroppsdelarna upptäcks, och polisen börjar ställa frågor, men kvinnorna har långt mer farliga fiender att bekymra sig över. En lånehaj med Yakuza-kontakter upptäcker deras hemlighet, och även en hänsynslös nattklubbsägare som polisen är övertygade om är mördaren. Han har förlorat allt på grund av kvinnornas brott och han vill ha hämnd.
Källa: Adlibris

Jag är inget fan av deckare men efter att ha kommit (läs: flugit) igenom ungefär hälften av sidorna kan jag säga att detta bådar gott!

Jag har nu ägnat min fruktansvärt döda tid till att göa något jag älskar - nämligen att läsa. Det var länge sedan jag verkligen tog mig lite kvalitetstid med mina underbara böcker. Inatt när jag inte kunde sova, läste jag ut Alkemisten som är skriven av Paulo Coleho. Det var en mycket lättskriven bok, men som inte skall underskattas på grund av detta. Den är absolut värd ens tid. Jag har skrivit om denna bok tidigare, vilket ni kan läsa om här.
 Idag började jag istället antasta boken Locke Lamoras lögner av Scott Lynch. Den lyckades fånga mig väldigt snabbt, även om språket var ett riktigt miljöombyte från tidigare lästa Alkemisten. Jag kan inte riktigt reflektera över den så mycket än, mer än det jag redan sagt. Den verkar helt enkelt vara ett bra tillskott till min kära boksamling.

Böcker ligger mig varmt om hjärtat alltså. Att få försvinna in i en annan värld, eller leva ur en annan människas perspektiv för en stund är väldigt skönt. Just nu läser jag Alkemisten av Paulo Coelho (egentligen läser jag en del andra böcker samtidigt, men denna känner jag att jag klarar av att avsluta för tillfället).
Boken handlar om herdepojken Santiago från Spanien, som genom en dröm bestämer sig för att finna en av världens mest dyrbara skatter.
Det är en mycket lättsam bok vilket gör att man lätt glider igenom den, och att den ligger på enstaka 185 sidor gör ju inte läsningen tyngre. Jag skulle verkligen rekommendera denna bok, eftersom den är så pass lättsam och att den samtidigt aldrig får en att tappa intresset för att fortsätta läsa.