Tag : writing

haruki-murakamiMurakami despre muzica, visurile lui si despre cum scrie

Murakami despre muzica, visurile lui si despre cum scrie

e in The Guardian transcrierea unei intilniri de la un club de carte dintre Haruki Murakami si cititorii sai.

Murakami iese foarte rar in public si cu atit mai putin iese la intiniri cu cititorii. E frumos ce l-au intrebat oamenii, dar e si foaret simpatic sa-l ghicesti pe scriitor din descrierile contextului (vorbeste engleza, dar are alaturi o traducatoare, din staff-ul lui, care e o fosta chelnerita dintr-un bar in care a fost cu sotia – deci isi pastreaza zona de confort aproape).

Mai jos trei dintre raspunsuri.


I don’t have any idea at all, when I start writing, of what is to come. For instance, for The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, the first thing I had was the call of the bird, because I heard a bird in my back yard (it was the first time I heard that kind of sound and I never have since then. I felt like it was predicting something. So I wanted to write about it). The next thing was cooking spaghetti – these are things that happen to me! I was cooking spaghetti, and somebody call. So I had just these two things at the start. Two years I kept on writing. It’s fun! I don’t know what’s going to happen next, every day. I get up, go to the desk, switch on the computer, etc. and say to myself: “so what’s going to happen today?”It’s fun!


Music comes naturally. When writing fiction, I need something musical, and the songs come automatically to me. I have learned so many things from music – harmony, rhythm, improvisation. Rhythm is important to me – you need it to get the readers to keep writing. Usually I listen to music when I’m writing, and that’s where the songs in the books tend to come from.


It’s my lifetime dream to be sitting at the bottom of a well. It’s a dream come true. [Not a nightmare? asks John Mullan. “No!” “Why not?” “I dont know.”] I thought: it’s fun to write a novel, you can be anything! So I thought: I can sit at the bottom of a well, isolated … Wonderful!

intreaga discutie e aici

cartile lui Murakami sunt traduse in RO la editura Polirom. aici intregul catalog de traduceri.

books3ce spun tendintele in structuri narative si in povesti…

ce spun tendintele in structuri narative si in povesti…

citesc pentru un proiect despre structuri narative transmedia, despre cum se schimba limbajul in functie de platforma pe care e scrisa informatia.

cea mai simpatica – si cred, reala – tendinta este ca viitoarele carti vor putea fi citite de oriunde s-ar deschide si naratiunea ar putea avea sens.

e potrivit cu gindirea actuala a tinerilor si cu span attention-ul lor (sub 2 min), dar revolutioneaza practic tot ceea ce s-a invatat in scoala despre o structura narativa care trebuie sa aiba un inceput, un mijloc (cu conflict, punct culminant) si deznodamint.

cartea viitorului va fi ca un board cu post-it-uri, pe fiecare post-it o poveste. de oriunde ai incepe sa citesti, ai prinde povestea, ai trai din atmosfera si – pe durata citirii unui “post -it” ai avea satisfactia data de o poveste mare (cu tensiune, conflict, punct culminant deznodamint)

cartea viitorului va fi deci o colectie de povesti scurte cu aceleasi personaje, mini seriale tv asezate pe hirtie intr-o naratiune lineara sau nu.

si pentru ca traim in epoca facebook, cind “like” inlocuie “love” si e instrumentul perfect ca sa-ti umfli ego-ul, iar generatia noua e narcisista ( se fotografiaza mult, ii place sa fie placut(a) , sa primeasca multe like-uri), personajele povestilor viitoare vor fi cu “narcissistic personal disorder”.

pentru lamuriri, dar si pentru a recunoaste tipologia multor personaje din cartile/filmelor ultimilor ani, iata cum se manifesta  “narcissistic personal disorder”

  • Has a grandiose sense of self-importance (e.g., exaggerates achievements and talents, expects to be recognized as superior without commensurate achievements)
  • Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love
  • Believes that he or she is “special” and unique and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people (or institutions)
  • Requires excessive admiration
  • Has a very strong sense of entitlement, e.g., unreasonable expectations of especially favorable treatment or automatic compliance with his or her expectations
  • Is exploitative of others, e.g., takes advantage of others to achieve his or her own ends
  • Lacks empathy, e.g., is unwilling to recognize or identify with the feelings and needs of others
  • Is often envious of others or believes that others are envious of him or her
  • Regularly shows arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes


didion-jJoan Didion – the lady I would like to be

Joan Didion – the lady I would like to be


You have said that writing is a hostile act; I have always wanted to ask you why.


It’s hostile in that you’re trying to make somebody see something the way you see it, trying to impose your idea, your picture. It’s hostile to try to wrench around someone else’s mind that way. Quite often you want to tell somebody your dream, your nightmare. Well, nobody wants to hear about someone else’s dream, good or bad; nobody wants to walk around with it. The writer is always tricking the reader into listening to the dream.


Are you conscious of the reader as you write? Do you write listening to the reader listening to you?


Obviously I listen to a reader, but the only reader I hear is me. I am always writing to myself. So very possibly I’m committing an aggressive and hostile act toward myself.


So when you ask, as you do in many nonfiction pieces, “Do you get the point?” you are really asking if you yourself get the point.


Yes. Once in a while, when I first started to write pieces, I would try to write to a reader other than myself. I always failed. I would freeze up.


I wonder if your ethic—what you call your “harsh Protestant ethic”—doesn’t close things up for you, doesn’t hinder your struggle to keep all the possibilities open.


I suppose that’s part of the dynamic. I start a book and I want to make it perfect, want it to turn every color, want it to be the world. Ten pages in, I’ve already blown it, limited it, made it less, marred it. That’s very discouraging. I hate the book at that point. After a while I arrive at an accommodation: Well, it’s not the ideal, it’s not the perfect object I wanted to make, but maybe—if I go ahead and finish it anyway—I can get it right next time. Maybe I can have another chance.



So the process of writing the novel is for you the process of discovering the precise novel that you want to write.


Exactly. At the beginning I don’t have anything at all, don’t have any people, any weather, any story. All I have is a technical sense of what I want to do. For example, I want sometime to write a very long novel, eight hundred pages. I want to write an eight-hundred-page novel precisely because I think a novel should be read at one sitting. If you read a novel over a period of days or weeks the threads get lost, the suspension breaks. So the problem is to write an eight-hundred-page novel in which all the filaments are so strong that nothing breaks or gets forgotten ever. I wonder if García Márquez didn’t do that in The Autumn of the Patriarch. I don’t want to read it because I’m afraid he might have done it, but I did look at it, and it seems to be written in a single paragraph. One paragraph. The whole novel. I love that idea.



You say you treasure privacy, that “being left alone and leaving others alone is regarded by members of my family as the highest form of human endeavor.” How does this mesh with writing personal essays, particularly the first column you did for Life where you felt it imperative to inform the reader that you were at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel in lieu of getting a divorce?


I don’t know. I could say that I was writing to myself, and of course I was, but it’s a little more complicated than that. I mean the fact that eleven million people were going to see that page didn’t exactly escape my attention. There’s a lot of mystery to me about writing and performing and showing off in general. I know a singer who throws up every time she has to go onstage. But she still goes on.


How did the “fragility of Joan Didion” myth start?


Because I’m small, I suppose, and because I don’t talk a great deal to people I don’t know. Most of my sentences drift off, don’t end. It’s a habit I’ve fallen into. I don’t deal well with people. I would think that this appearance of not being very much in touch was probably one of the reasons I started writing.

de aici

a fost ziua ei pe 5 decembrie. a implinit 79 de ani. din pacate e o scriitoare care nu a fost tradusa la noi, dar sper din tot sufletul sa se intimple asta cit mai curind.


scriitura povestilor, o compozitie muzicala

O poveste frumos spusa este o unitate simfonica in care structura, universul, personajul, genul si ideea se contopesc, fara sa iti dai seama. Ca sa le gaseasca armonia, scriitorul trebuie sa studieze elementele povestii, ca si cum ar fi instrumentele unei orchestre – mai intii separat, apoi in concert.

Robert McKEE – story


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