Tag: Love

  • Personal Review: “First Person Singular” by Haruki Murakami

    I got The Elephant Vanishes when it first came out in the US, and for years I loaned that book out. In fact, I have bought three copies of it, and currently, I will need to go and buy a fourth copy. It makes me happy when I see that one of Haruki Murakami short stories in The New Yorker, and at bookstores, I gravitate to his name in the fiction section, just to see what they have. So, I am a big fan of Haruki Murakami, and for that reason, this personal review will be biased.

    You have been warned.

    I purchased First Person Singular about a year ago, and I am embarrassed to say this, but I read it slowly over the past four months. Normally, I try to read a book, especially one of his, as fast as possible, as I do have a stack of books calling my name. Yet, this time around, this book sat on the end table in my livingroom. Occasionally it would call out to me, but on the whole, I read a story here and there, in a very leisurely way. That’s not to say that the stories weren’t engaging, I just never felt the urge with this collection to finish it now. It was more like, “We’re here when you need us.”

    What I love most about Murakami is how effortlessly he can move between contemporary realism, then switch to surrealism. With other writers who write in these two worlds, it becomes pretty clear as to why they choose these two styles; contemporary realism is the “drama” story, and the surrealism is the “comedy” story. Murakami keeps you on your toes, never sure which will be which. It makes his works fresh and unpredictable.

    First Person Singular is made up of eight stories, and, you guessed it, each story is told in first person singular. It’s a “wink wink, nudge nudge” kind’a title; a little joke which Murakami wants to make sure we’re in on. It is implied, in almost every story, that the first person is Murakami himself, but I am not one to jump on that boat. This is fiction after all, and he wouldn’t be the first writer to create the illusion that what you are reading is actually based on real events. By doing that, creating this illusion of honesty, it makes the stories feel more intimate, and that Murakami is talking to us as a friend.

    I want to take a moment of select three of the stories to highlight. The first is “On a Stone Pillow” which recounts, for lack of a more nuanced description, a one-night stand. But this isn’t a story so much about sex, as it is about intimacy and connection. The two people find themselves yearning after others, but in this one moment find solace in each other. I found their honestly with each other melancholic, and devastating in the ways the heart can love and break. “Confessions of a Shinagawa Monkey” is one of Murakami’s surreal stories, as there is a talking monkey in it. Yet, this was another story on the contemplation of love, and living in a world where you cannot fit in. The last story I want to mention is “The Yakult Swallows

    Poetry Collection,” about the love of following an awful baseball club, and finding creativity in such devotion. It rang very true to me, being a Cubs fan and all.

    What all of these stories, but these three especially, hammered home to me was the different forms love and connection can take. The moments that we share with people, some fleeting, some for a lifetime, and how they can affect us for years to come. The skill that Murakami displays as a writer is giving these characters an emotional weight in their worlds, which in some cases elevates them to understandings, and others pulls down into listlessness. Murakami does this by creating a tone, and a very specific mood, which is not unlike music. (Which is funny because other stories in this collection revolve around music.)

    It does make me wonder, as First Person Singular was written in Japanese (props to Philip Gabriel’s translation) how all of these touches and folds of nuances play out in its original language? It a question of pure curiosity, and not one that I actually need answered. I wonder this because, Murakami’s work makes me feel that the world he creates is a place of quiet contemplation, and internalizing the events that make up our lives. That to live and experience life is a gift on its own. Then to take those experiences, digest and acknowledge them, appreciate them, is another gift we receive in this world.

    Maybe, in a weird way, I read First Person Singular the way Haruki Murakami intended me to. I took my time, didn’t rush it, and allowed myself to enjoy at my own pace, so I could contemplate it at my own speed.

  • Short Story Review: “Enough for Now” by Cassandra Neyenesch

    (The short story “Enough for Now” by Cassandra Neyenesch appeared in the April 6th, 2026 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Illustration by Cecilia Carlstedt

    And then I read a short story that’s just a good, solid short story. I wasn’t sure what to expect from the first paragraph, but Cassandra Neyenesch’s “Enough for Now” is a deft piece of fiction. It’s concise in the specific story it is telling, and it never wanders into heavy handedness. Yet it is apparent that the impact of these events will live with the protagonist; perhaps not paramount in her thoughts every day, but influencing decisions though she may forget where that influence originated.

    I will be honest and admit to my bias here; I have never been a fan of stories about people in their early twenties backpacking through foreign countries. Most of these works have the stench of elitism and privilege on them, which renders the inevitable “coming of age” plot toothless in dramatic impact. Also, to steal from another work of literature, this genre of story tries very hard to convince us that these characters are travelers, when they are in fact tourists.

    I bring this up because “Enough for Now” does stick a toe into the clichés of “backpacking” stories. The protagonist, Martha, meets a fellow traveler on a train, a Dutch guy named Joost. Soon they decide to split a room together, and not long after that, they agree to travel together, as they are heading in the same direction, which leads them to start a sexual relationship together. None of this I didn’t see coming.

    What Neyenesch does in “Enough for Now” to keep the story engaging is to conjure up some very smart writing. The setting, post Tiananmen Square Massacre China, work beautifully with the stories themes; honesty, what we say in public as compared to private, trauma… Martha is a fascinating character, she is young enough to be optimistic, but also has lived enough to understand inevitable outcomes. Also, she is a woman traveling alone in a foreign country, and there is a constant, and underlining feeling of threat in this story, wherein Martha’s guard needs to be up. And it was a pleasure to read how Neyenesch takes all of these threads and themes to dash each cliché.

    This is a story about a traveler, a little jaded, but still out to explore. She might return home, and she might not. Martha is experiencing and learning as she goes. This isn’t a character who is coming of age, but learning that she an adult who is more than the sum of her experiences, and some experiences have more weight than others.

  • Short Non-Fiction Review: “They Only Come Out at Night” by Kara Melissa

    (The short non-fiction piece “They Only Come Out at Night” by Kara Melissa was presented by Rejection Letters on September 10th, 2025.)

    Image by Janvi Bhardwaj

    I had the hardest time coming up with a solid opening paragraph for this review of Kara Melissa’s non-fiction piece “They Only Come Out at Night.” I like to think that I’m good at introductions, but not this time. The issue I am having is how I can’t wrap my arms around this essay to find one single starting point to explain how this honest, interwoven, melancholic story affected me.

    From the first paragraph, Melissa pulled me in with an intense honesty; confidant in its story telling. Not for shock value, nor did this feel like oversharing, or a performative confession. This was a clear declaration of deep emotions, fully self-aware that maybe some people wouldn’t understand this situation, but it was true.

    What follows are three tangents, platted together with connecting themes of MRI’s, hospitals, logic, brain function, and most importantly love; the compassion, empathy and longings which form in situations Melissa finds herself in. Through all of it, I felt this wrap of a happy melancholy resignation to it all. I wish I could explain that better, but it’s what I feel someone who has loved deeply, and lost greatly would feel towards the world.

    I relished how the essay is presented straight forward and logical – The descriptions of medical treatments, aliments, and the causes. The setting is during the Covid lockdowns, and with the clinical narrative, Melissa creates a feeling of isolation and detachment. This makes her desire for connection, understanding, and compassion all the more pertinent.

    I don’t want to belabor this review, as I am purposefully not going into all the details of the essay, because you should go read it. But I will say that the last section left me with a wonderful feeling of hopefulness. That even in the darkness, when we feel lost, that the love we have for each other can carry us through. With everything going on, I needed to be reminded of that fact.

  • Thoughts on Diane (Unedited)

    (This is a follow up on my post from Monday, which dealt with the passing of my dear friend and mentor, Diane Simons.)

    As this week has gone on, and I have reflected on the time that I spent with Diane, I am filled with overwhelming gratitude. For a very important five years of my life, I was guided by and witnessed the creativity, kindness, compassion, optimism and love that Diane filled her life with.

    Working for her out at Hip Pocket Theatre has defined what I view and expect when it comes to leadership in the arts. She was selfless in that regard – the theatre was the thing, and not her. She supported all of the artists that came through the doors, and never wavered in her optimism in that place. No matter what the challenge was, and we faced some pretty serious one, she had faith that we would all make it though the other side. Having spent so many hours with her, I saw her get angry enough times, but she never let that dissuade her from optimism. That and she cleaned the bathrooms before every show, which is still my yardstick when it comes to people I work for in the arts; would they clean the bathrooms in their own theatre? The answer for 90% of them is no. Diane was committed to doing whatever was needed to be done to make the show happen.

    She also taught me what it means to be an artist. How important it is to get out every idea, and see what sticks. To never limit yourself, or say that something can’t be done. She taught me to collect ideas and influences, and the importance of have a notebook, or a sketchpad near you at all times. That art is giving and sharing and encouraging creativity not only in yourself but in others. That fostering creativity begets more creativity and what you put out you will get in return. That being an artist is fun, but it’s also hard work that can be a lot of fun. I can hear her in my head, “Hell Matt, just give it a shot.”

    But what I find myself coming back to often this week was Diane and her family. Her husband and her two daughters. Oh, how she loved them. If you mentioned any of them in her presence, she would just light up. She was so proud of the women that her daughters became, and how unique and individualistic they were. She so loved being their mother, and was excited about what they did, and loved being a part of their lives. But her husband. “That man,” she’d say, and you could tell and feel how much she loved that man. She would get all giggly and flirty when he was around. Theirs’s was an epic partnership; they co-founded Hip Pocket Theatre, but they also taught theatre to thousands, and created a family of artists. They forged a community out of their love.

    And I am just heartbroken for them. They loved her so.

  • Road Trip Thoughts, Part Two (Unedited)

    When I woke up Saturday morning, the first thing I did was text the wife to see how she was doing. She was happy to report that the medication had started to take effect, and she was feeling much better. Maybe she could have made the trip, but out of caution, I knew we had made the right call to have her stay home.

    I cleaned up and went down to the lobby for my complementary free breakfast. To my surprise, at 8am, the lobby was packed, and not to be rude, packed with retirees. There must have been some gathering happening that weekend because a good number of the men all had the same t-shirt on, though there weren’t any words identifying what organization they belonged to.

    Seeing these older people, I wondered what type of retired guy I will be like. Having witnessed my grandfather and father’s retirements, what I observed is that they weren’t very social. They had hobbies and read all the time, but neither of them belonged to some “group” that did things. They were solitary men, and as I thought about it, that seemed correct for me as well. But maybe I would travel. Go from one budget hotel to another; seeing America in a very comfortable and affordable way. Staying right off the highway, and not venturing into town.

    I checked out, and fueled up the car. I sat in the parking lot and called the wife. She confirmed that she was feeling better, and we were both excited about having the kid back. We didn’t talk for too long; the wife still needed to rest, and I was excited to pick up the kid.

    I was only an hour and a half from the camp, and the drive was a peaceful, leisurely one that took me up into the Appalachian Mountains. I was anxious to see my daughter, yet there was this feeling that kept creeping over me – a feeling that I wasn’t living up to some standard that I had in my head of the type of father I need to be. It was failure. I felt like I have been failing as a dad, not giving my daughter what she needs to be a strong woman in this world. I have no idea where this thought was coming from, why at that moment of driving to pick her up that I felt that I wasn’t doing my job as a dad.

    Too much time alone with my thoughts can be dangerous. Honestly, I couldn’t remember when the last time I had almost two days alone to myself. Without someone to talk to, I descended into my thoughts, and I’m not very kind to myself. I have been working on that; being kinder to myself. Telling myself that these negative thoughts aren’t very helpful. I will be kinder to myself, and not so critical. Not that I do that, but I have been thinking about making this change.

    The camp is off a little single lane road. There was a check point where I had to show my ID, verifying that I was the kid’s father. But I was fifteen minutes early, so they had me pull into a small parking lot to wait my turn. Now, this was the worst part – so close to getting the kid. I was ready for her to be dirty, and smell bad because it was an outdoor camp, and she was free to be dirty and smelly, and have the best time as possible. I was sure her hair would be wild and tangled, and she would be taller, and tan, and happier and more confident than she’s been in a long time. I was getting excited about how great of a time she had had.

    Then we were given the all clear, and it was time for us parents to get our kids. What that really meant was that we all got our cars to line up and slowly drive into camp. And the excitement kept building in me.

    And this was another moment in my life where I was taken aback by my emotions. I thought I knew what I would feel, but what I felt was stronger and more sweeping than I knew I had in me. I was going to burst – bust in tears, laughter, scream – something was going to give way. I was barely holding on, only slightly in control of my emotions. The last time I felt like this was when I found out about my mother’s cancer diagnosis – and I was angry, and depressed, forlorn, and hopeless – and at any whim, I was overcome and I wasn’t able to control myself. And I just felt, and it came pouring out of me, just a river (a flood) of emotions and feeling – a raw live wire. At least this time, sitting in my car, waiting my turn to get my daughter, it was joy happiness and love that were bursting to come out.

    See, you’re not supposed to get out of your car when you get your kid from this camp. Pick up there is like an assembly line, which makes sense. They greet you at the first stop, then you get your kids trunk at the next stop, and the final stop is that you kid jumps into your car, and then you are on your way. Hence why you stay in your car.

    When I got to the “get you kid” stop, I hopped out of my car, and was quickly yelled at by the councilors to get back in. Oops. The kid jumped into the car and asked, “Where’s the dog?” I didn’t get a “Hi, Dad” or nothing. She didn’t even ask for her mother. So, the dog was the big winner. Anyway, I enplaned to the kid that mom was sick, and I left the dog with her. The kid said I could have still brought the dog.

    I drove out of camp, but first I pulled back into the waiting parking lot. I got out of the car, and told the kid to do the same, because I was hugging my daughter, damn it! I was going to hug the stinky, wild haired, mosquito bitten, summer tanned kid that I love more than love itself. I just wanted to hug her. “I missed you,” I said to her, with a catch in my throat.

    “I love you, dad” She said back. And then added, “Are we on a father/daughter adventure?”

    “Yes, we are.” My heart exploded a little, for I was in this moment. Keenly aware that this was a memory, an experience, I was creating; one that I would think back on, hold on to, remind myself of when life gets hard. A new core memory for me.