Here are some appreciations i found on the book and its author:
Drugs and sex and drugs and sex and drugs and sex. Throw in music, booze and puke, a little William S. Burroughs and A Clockwork Orange, set the blender on high, pour into a tall glass and drink in Japanese writer Ryu Murakami's strange novel, Almost Transparent Blue.
You will forget any image of Japan being a land of cherry blossoms, geishas, and gentle monks after reading this thin novel. Instead, Murakami paints a picture of a disfranchised youth-rejecting corporate Japan, and hurling itself instead into a cyclone of self-destruction. Written in first person and seemingly autobiographical, the main character of the novel, Ryu, tells of an odyssey of meeting friends, having drugs with friends, having sex with friends, and puking with friends. Ryu seems to have sex with anything that moves, including U.S. servicemen from a nearby base. With the constant descriptions of puking, erotica this isn't.
Born in 1952, Murakami grew up in the port city of Sasebo in western Japan. While studying at an art college in Tokyo, he submitted Almost Transparent Blue in a competition for new authors. Published, it has sold over a million copies in Japan. Since then in addition to his writing, Murakami has presented a weekly music and interview radio program as well as his own TV show.
Murakami ends Almost Transparent Blue with, "Lilly, where are you now?.... And just because I've written this book, don't think I've changed. I'm like I was back then, really." You have to wonder.
Hope it helps
["Trouble? Hey, that's good, coming from you! Listen, you just don't just show your butts in front of other people, maybe you don't know it, but you shouldn't act like dogs."]
Life isn't hateful, it's just there to be lived; much like drugs are there to be taken, and people are there to be fucked. Considering a million and one writers have approached this whole destructive fucking/getting high nihilistic attitude in the last thirty years, this book is supposed to be a droll read - regardless of whether it was one of the first to emerge from the makeshift genre. But it's not. The prose, even in English translation, is fucking sublime - much like William Gibson, a few sentences are enough for me to chew on all night, like a big ol' piece of gristly meat.
Excerpt from a review.
