Murakami used to be my “fresh breeze” back in the day. He was the ultimate source of joy and originality in literature—my Beatles. I devoured his books voraciously, utterly enchanted by his unique storytelling.

Years later, metaphorically speaking, I find myself seated next to him at a dinner party, but somehow the spark in our conversation is missing. We don’t have much in common. I’m no fan of baseball, his music references fly right over my head, and even if jazz intrigued me a little, I couldn’t contribute meaningfully to our discussion. Maybe these interests, which added an enjoyable touch of spice to his books, now dominate the conversation, and my attention begins to waver.

When I ask him about his writing, his answers aren’t particularly exciting either. But what did I expect? Naturally, his responses are a bit like those lackluster answers to questions about the secret of any success: consistency and grit. True as they may be, they inevitably disappoint anyone hoping for a more intriguing, profound answer.

The dinner is, of course, perfectly fine—polite and pleasant, but more of a formality than a life-changing experience.

Still, as I walk away, I wonder: have I really changed this much, or has his originality worn off over time (which, in fact, is the natural lifecycle of originality)? Maybe it’s time to revisit his stories to see if the magic still lingers there. Because, after all, a writer’s works can also exist as more exciting and colourful beings, entirely separate from their creator.

Tomorrow, I’ll walk into a bookshop and pick up his latest work. I’m curious to see how it resonates with me now, in light of this imaginary dinner that his essay collection provided.