I don’t know how I did on my comps yet, but I do know that they’re over, so the structure of the demands on my time has shifted somewhat. If I play my cards right, get back in the swing of schoolwork and so on, I should have a chunk of extra time in which to pursue my other interests, like photography and reading, and extracurricular language work.
I won’t say this is an unusual preference, but I enjoy reading a lot, and I’m upset that other stuff so often gets in the way of spending time with a book. This year I’ve read two books, The System of the World by Neal Stephenson and Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress by Dai Sijie, both of which I recommend without discussion for now.
My dad just sent me (and I am now reading) Kafka on the Shore, the most recent(ly translated) Haruki Murakami novel. Here are a couple passages that caught my eye, rendered in the seemingly ordinary, idiomatic English that (I gather) is faithful to the tone and style of the original.
A dark, omnipresent pool of water.
It was probably always there, hidden away somewhere. But when the time comes it silently rushes out, chilling every cell in your body. You drown in that cruel flood, gasping for breath. You cling to a vent near the ceiling, struggling, but the air you manage to breathe is dry and burns your throat. Water and thirst, cold and heat — these supposedly opposite elements combine to assault you.
. . . and . . .
Back to Eichmann. Of course his project didn’t always go according to plan. Conditions at various sites slowed things down. When this happened he acted like a human being — at least a little. He got angry, is what I’m saying. He grew incensed at these uncertain elements that threw his elegant solution into disarray. Trains ran late. Bureaucratic red tape held things up. People in charge were replaced, and relations with their successors didn’t go well. After the collapse of the Russian front, concentration camp guards were sent there to fight. There were heavy snowfalls. Power outages. Not enough poison gas to go around. Rail lines were bombed. Eichmann hated the war itself — that element of uncertainty that screwed up his plans.
. . . and . . .
“I know. You’ve never killed anyone, and don’t want to. But listen to me — there are times in life when those kinds of excuses don’t cut it anymore.