By Ryu Murakami
A early life in collage, his older mistress and a melange of previous acquaintances. This novel is filled with quickly sketched scenes that float from daily fact to the hallucinatory.
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Extra resources for Almost Transparent Blue
I shouted, felt torn apart. I tried to pull away, but the black woman’s body was hard and slippery as greased steel. Pain mixed with pleasure drilled through my lower body and swirled up to my head. My toes were hot enough to melt. My shoulders began to shake, maybe I was going to start yelling. The back of my throat was blocked by something like the soup Jamaicans make with Ryū Murakami—Almost Transparent Blue 46 blood and grease, I wanted to spit it up. The black woman took deep breaths, felt my shaft to make sure it was deep inside her, grinned, and took a puff on a very long black cigarette.
It started down the runway slowly. The earth shook. The huge silvery metal gradually picked up speed. Its high-pitched whine seared the air. Close in front of us, four enormous tube-shaped engines spouted blue flame. The stench of heavy oil and the violent blast of air blew me off my feet. My face distorted, I hit the ground. My clouded eyes tried desperately to see. As I was thinking the white belly of the plane had just floated off the ground, before I knew it, it was sucked toward the clouds.
Kei had said she’d used it to dance with. She’d said she’d trimmed the tips so they wouldn’t prick her thighs and pasted it on when she did the strip. Ryū Murakami—Almost Transparent Blue 49 I was cold; only my feet were hot. Sometimes the heat rose slowly to my head. It was a ball of heat like a peach pit and when it rose, it clawed my heart and stomach and lungs and throat and gums. The wet scenery outside seemed gentle. Its blurred contours collected raindrops, and voices and the sound of cars had their corners smoothed off by the steadily falling silver needles of rain.