I remember reading this on the dirty banks of the Avon river in Christchurch, so engrossed that I failed to notice that my shoe had come off at the heel and my socks were now crusted with mud and grass.

Though compelling, parts of this definitely made me feel uncomfortable in a way I think was unintentional. I think the author has, at best, a very complicated relationship with female sexuality, and a tenuous grasp on how to write women convincingly.

Time has not been kind to books with undertones like some of those present here. To review it with a modern lens is, in my opinion, totally valid though - art exists as much FOR the consumer as it does FROM the creator. I can't exactly fault people for dismissing it as misogynistic.

Revisiting this book, though, I remembered why I used to read it until 3 am even when I had class early in the morning. Perhaps it's nostalgia, but the slow-building emotional muck and mire of a man who has no idea what he wants actually makes for a great story - something I reckon even J.D Salinger struggled to pull off. (I'm unkind to characters like these, usually, so I have no idea how Murakami was able to write Watanabe in such a way as to make me sympathetic to him.)

Sweeping, dimensional city-scapes and a strong, heady atmosphere make Norwegian Wood a fun visual, too. I could see it inspiring great visual art, if I was capable of anything more than dreadful scrawls and stick figures I'd give it a go myself, but I'm bloody terrible.

This was one of those books that really implanted itself within my feeble teenage brain, and I am the first to admit this review might be a little biased because of that.