I forgot to link to this the other day: Telegraph interview with Haruki Murakami.
He listens to a lot of music – rock, classical and jazz (Bill Evans and the Beach Boys are particular favourites) – but nothing Japanese. His listening is frequently interrupted by strange telephone calls – mysterious women offering phone sex; gangsters making quiet threats. He tends to sleep badly, often getting up in the middle of the night to drink whisky and brood on things until day-break. He is a decent sort, bemused by the essential strangeness of life, with more questions than answers. "I can understand his position," says Murakami lightly. "He’s an outsider. He’s his own man. He doesn’t belong to any system or any company. He’s part of me, but he’s not me. He’s looking for something."