At some point, you just have to accept Kafka on the Shore for what it is — a metaphor, a home of symbolism, an LSD trip in literary form.

After every few chapters, I'd theorize a possible explanation for what's going on. Every time I read on, I get debunked. The book ends with lots of strings untied, yet it doesn't feel unfinished. It's art for the sake of art — it doesn't make sense, and it doesn't have to. If that interests you, pick it up, and grab an umbrella while you're at it. Might rain cats and dogs, who knows?

After reading Kafka on the Shore, I swayed on my hammock and saw a rainbow form among the clouds. I watched the birds to ground myself back to reality.