Some combination of the loveable averageness of Toru Okada (the book's protagonist and narrator), lines like "I had no more plans for the afternoon than a migrating bird has collateral assets" and the absurdity of a story about free-will and the corruption of one’s identity that hinges on a missing cat sucked me into the world of Murakami for the next few weeks of English class. 'The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle' by Haruki Murakami She recommended 'The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle', one of her favourites, she said and trusting her judgement, I loaded it up on the old Kindle to bring into class the next week. I wanted to give reading another shot but after failing to find anything to sink my teeth into and not knowing where else to look, I approached my English teacher for help.
I would pick a book that stood out on the shelf, read the first 30 pages and return it at the end of the twenty-five minutes just to start over again with a new book the next week.Įventually though, I ran out of new books to try and all those studies about reading started to weigh on my mind. What was the point?Īnd so that is what left me searching each Wednesday morning for something in our class library to read and pass the time.
It didn't make sense and all the quoted statistics about 'intelligence' and ‘success’ didn't do much to convince me of anything.Īfter graduating from The Hungry Caterpillar, I never went on to read Harry Potter or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Spending hours watching TV for the escapism and excitement of getting sucked into another world would lead to scoldings and screentime limits, but staring at words on a page instead of an LCD screen for the same reasons was considered worthwhile. It also puzzled me why kids who read were praised by parents and teachers. Since young, I had been convinced that as a path to the dopamine I craved, reading was inefficient and required far too much work and patience when compared to something like mashing buttons on a controller. Every week I would walk in - usually half-awake - and sit down on the old cushioned sofa at the back of the classroom to start the twenty-five minutes of reading that each lesson began with. In the eleventh grade, Wednesday mornings meant English class. The man who never reads lives only one." - George R.R. "A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies.
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