I usually love Murakami, but this one? This one has failed me. The main character is your typical boring straight guy whose arrogance peeks through a humble facade. That's fine, that's forgivable. But his detailed fixation on his dead 12-year-old sister's breasts? Even reminiscing about them as she lay in her coffin?! Nahhhhh, time to set this book down. I've been fighting to keep my attention on this book because I know Murakami's writing is usually a slow burn. But I've never had to work this hard to stick with a book. 113 pages in, any fight I had left was gone. I'm so disappointed.