The Japan of Murakami is suffering from the blight of advanced capitalism: everything that was authentic has been replaced by commoditized substitutes and items once of value have been sliced into virtually meaningless fragments for which people may, nevertheless, be persuaded to pay money. Such is the lot of the author, who is 34 but unburdened by a name and resorts to “shoveling cultural snow” for a living–that is, writing copy for a range of magazines, PR sheets and whatever else yields a yen or two.
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