South of the Border, West of the Sun: A Novel (Vintage International)

by Haruki Murakami

“I guess I’m afraid of being disappointed. Reading trashy novels makes me feel I’m wasting time. It wasn’t always that way. I used to have lots of time, so even though I knew they were junk, I still felt something good would come from reading them. Now it’s different. Must be getting old.”

“But what was wrong with the performance?” she asked. “I thought it was wonderful.” “Don’t you remember?” I said. “The record we used to listen to, at the end of the second movement there was this tiny scratch you could hear. Putchi! Putchi! Somehow, without that scratch, I can’t get into the music!” Shimamoto laughed. “I wouldn’t exactly call that art appreciation.” “This has nothing to do with art. Let a bald vulture eat that up, for all I care. I don’t care what anybody says; I like that scratch!”