What I'm reading: Norwegian Wood, a novel by Haruki Murakami,



In the original Japanese.   



 I’d like to say that.  I'd really like to say that.  Unfortunately I am a lazy linguist without knowledge of written Japanese, let alone any other foreign language, believing my inherent right of being an English-speaking American ensures me that every other culture will learn my language and spare me the effort.  It’s worked so far.  

















My book cover actually looks like this.  In English. 


This wasn't always my attitude.  I took the obligatory French in high school with disturbingly poor results.  Why?  Because I could envision myself as a translator.  I'd have been good if only I could learn the language. 


Years later I took Conversational Italian with workmates from the Statesman Journal:  Michael Agnese, camera department; John DiMaggio, pressman.  I had a trip to Italia booked and these two were making vacation plans - to the "home-country" (at some distant point in the past anyway.)

That first class was magical.  I could hear every nuance of the language.  Words flowed from my tongue with a perfect accent.   I understood everything.  I was the classroom peacock performing to my friends.  Amazing.  I was so very happy on the way home.  I was surely Italian in a past life. 




Turns out, that was the only time it clicked.  What a disappointment.  I studied and studied and practiced conjugating those fricking verbs.  To no avail.  I was a complete dud.  That first class also turned out to be the only one Michael attended.  Maybe he was my lucky language charm.  While supposedly at class, he actually had something going on the side, and got caught by his wife eventually.  After the class was over!  Lots of drama there. 

I did indeed go to Italy where, even in remote countryside, somebody or other spoke English. 

As to this supposed book review:  It's an enjoyable read.  If you want plot details, better look somewhere else.  :)















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