My biggest fear going into this book was that, simply, stuff would happen. The first thirty or so pages I was enchanted with the way Murakami wrote about the dull yet oddly mystical world of Toru Okada, and I was not looking forward for the plot the back cover described of “a man discovering the evil underbelly of Tokyo in an almost detective story-esque fashion.” Imagine my delight when I found out that hardly describes a small section of the very last handful of chapters. For the most part, it really isn’t a book where a lot happens, despite its general weirdness, and I can get behind that. Throughout its six hundred pages, I really never found myself tired and bored of the general nothingness. I will say, I did respect the really long and meticulously researched war stories way more than I liked them, and same goes for the news stories and letters from May. Toru Okada is a really enjoyable protagonist to read from the point of view of, kind of a Mersault-type protagonist. Ultimately, it’s delightfully peculiar, definitely a must read.