Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami (his book of success) is a realistic fictional story based on the life of a college student, who reminisces about his life in the 1960's.
Readers are transported from the famous Beatles song to the single person perspective world of the narrator, Toru Watanabe.
The book begins with Toru having a hard time writing about his most intense memories.
Jeffrey Eugenides' "The Marriage Plot" is not really about marriage, and while love and what it brings is a factor, this novel is really about self-discovery and the painful transition that often comes with entering adulthood.
I wanted to tell the truth; I did it. I am walking to the police station, neither fast nor slow. I look up to the sky and tell myself, "That's right. The innocent will get out of jail."
This might be the third thing that goes right in my life. Of course, one of these things is that I met him. Before I tell this story, I have to draw a picture that reveals a secret.
April 4. I still remember this date. Everything outside was turning green to welcome the nice weather. After finishing the prolonged winter, the world now was full of vigor.
For the first time in UNO's history, Composition I students are working from a textbook designed specifically for them. "From the Heartland: Critical Reading and Writing at UNO" was compiled and edited over the last two years by English faculty members Rachel Bash, Tammie Kennedy and Maggie Christensen. The $56.00 text represents the first-year writing program's identity.
The pungent, stinging stench of tea tree oil diffuses rapidly in the stale air of the cramped apartment. I study the little bits of stray matter highlighted by the ray of sun beaming through the window, imagining them choking and coughing on scent. Is it possible to die from a smell? It's supposed to kill lice with its antibacterial properties; does that go for all insects? I'm going to have to Google that. The steady hiss of the shower abruptly shuts off. I hear whistling and the vinyl snap of the shower curtain being flung open, and then the slap of wet feet hitting the linoleum floor. He must have shoved the bathmat against the door again.
We should have recognized the omens the night we cruised into Santa Fe. When snowdrifts obscured the friendly signs and covered the windows of strangers that would normally welcome visitors like us; when blizzard-like conditions caused every automobile to creep along the interstate in fear that an overcorrection of the wheel might fatefully crush metal and bones upon impact with red rock encased in ice; when we finally arrived at our hotel room, exhausted after twelve hours on the road, and it appeared as though a drug dealer or wild animal had inhabited the place for months -- crooked picture frames and dank, mustard-colored sheets left behind as ruffled remnants of his nightly terrors, induced by bad trips, bad dreams, or bad luck.