“Here’s what I think, Mr. Wind-Up Bird,” said May Kasahara...

2011self T I T LED

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“...everybody’s born with some different thing at the core of their existence. And that thing, whatever it is, becomes like a heat source that runs each person from the inside. I have one too, of course. Like everybody else. But sometimes it gets out of hand.

It swells or shrinks inside me, and it shakes me up. What I’d really like to do is find a way to communicate that feeling to another person. But I can’t seem to do it. They just don’t get it. Of course, the problem could be that I’m not explaining it very well, but I think it’s because they’re not listening very well. They pretend to be listening, but they’re not, really. So I get worked up sometimes, and I do some crazy things.”

—The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle Haruki Murakami

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Stitch ‘N Bitch

A Separate Peace

Pride & Prejudice

Norwegian Wood

I’m a Stranger Here Myself

Never Let Me Go

Kafka on the Shore

Oh, Were They Ever Happy!

Organize, Now!

Kitchen Window Plants

Betty Bear’s Birthday

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

1984

Sputnik Sweetheart

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

Style A to Z

How to Make Books

Harry Potter Knits

Three Cups of Tea

The Pearl

Book of Shadows

feelings we can never get back. That’s part of what

it means to be alive. But inside our heads — at

least that’s where I imagine it — there’s a little

room where we store those memories. A room like

the stacks in this library. And to understand the

workings of our own heart we have to keep on making

new reference cards. We have to dust things off every

once in awhile, let in fresh air, change the water in

the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live forever

in your own private library. One of the pleasures of

living in a small, old-fashioned New England town is

that it generally includes a small, old-fashioned post

office. Ours is particularly agreeable. It’s in an

attractive Federal-style brick building, confident but

not flashy, that looks like a post office ought to. It

even smells nice--a combination of gum adhesive and

old central heating turned up a little too high.

The next shot jumps to Karen and Tom arguing over

whether or not to “go in after him.” At this point it

remains unclear to whom they are referring:

There are several more shots.

Trees in winter.

Blood on the kitchen floor.

One shot of a child (Daisy) crying.

Then back to Navidson: “Nothing but this tape which

I’ve seen enough times, it’s more like a memory than

anything else. And I still don’t know: was he right or

just out of his mind?”

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Lost opportunities, lost possibilities,

Nancy Drew

The Scarlet Letter

Urban Farming

Reading Lolita in Tehran

Book of Shadows

Waiter Rant

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle

Quilting Patterns

Caffeine for the Creative Mind

2011

Followed by three more shots.

Dark hallways.

Windowless rooms.

Stairs.

You have to accept that sometimes that’s how things

happen in this world. People’s opinions, their feelings,

they go one way, then the other. It just so happens you

grew up at a certain point in this process.

One Saturday morning while their parents are away, the

three Noonan children decide to paint the house. In

this impoverished community of mud and stone huts, both

Mortenson’s life and the lives of northern Pakistan’s

children changed course. One evening, he went to bed

by a yak dung fire a mountaineer who’d lost his way,

and one morning, by the time he’d shared a pot of

butter tea with his hosts and laced up his boots, he’d

become a humanitarian who’d found a meaningful path

to follow for the rest of his life. This story about

good food begins in a quick-stop convenience market.

It was our family’s last day in Arizona.

Harry went down to breakfast the next morning to find

the three Dursleys already sitting around the kitchen

table. There was once a boy named Milo who didn’t

know what to do with himself — not just sometimes,

but always. When he was in school he longed to be out,

and when he was out he longed to be in. On the way he

thought about coming home, and coming home he thought

about going. Wherever he was he wished he were

somewhere else, and when he got there he wondered why

he’d bothered. Nothing really interested him — least

of all the things that should have.

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self T I T L ED :

JACLYN SALEM