A similar sentiment from one of Haruki Murakami's characters in Norwegian Wood:
The better I got to know Nagasawa, the stranger he seemed. I had met a lot of strange people in my day, but none as strange as Nagasawa. He was a far more voracious reader than I, but he made it a rule never to touch a book by any author who had not been dead at least thirty years. “That’s the only kind of book I can trust,” he said.
“It’s not that I don’t believe in contemporary literature,” he added, “but I don’t want to waste valuable time reading any book that has not had the baptism of time. Life is too short.”
“What kind of authors do you like?” I asked, speaking in respectful tones to this man two years my senior. “Balzac, Dante, Joseph Conrad, Dickens,” he answered without hesitation.
“Not exactly fashionable.”
“That’s why I read them. If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking. That’s the world of hicks and slobs. Real people would be ashamed of themselves doing that. Haven’t you noticed, Watanabe? You and I are the only real ones in the dorm. The other guys are crap.”
This took me off guard. “How can you say that?”
“’ Cause it’s true. I know. I can see it. It’s like we have marks on our foreheads. …”
Reading is amazing. Writing must be even crazier, to think all of what Murakami wrote came from inside his skull, that he has not only created those characters, but they live inside his simulation and create him as well.
Dreams can be wild, but the writer manufactures their characters from their mind while conscious. The intention and the agency over the creation sets them apart.
I have had only a 1 or 2 lucid dreams, but I couldn't hold the dream state for any appreciable amount of time that I achieved consciousness in the dream world.
I wonder how many writers employ dreams in the creation of characters, if they dream about the stories they write?
You mileage may vary, but I found Norwegian Wood to be disappointing. It’s mainly a sentimental piece for collage days and girls you knew back in your youth who are now lost to you in time. That sounds good but Murakami’s strengths are in light surrealism, dream logic plots, some humour as well. He reminds me of William S Burroughs but without the seedy mentions of young boys with over developed buttocks. I’ve been working through his novels chronologically and hit a snag with Norwegian Wood.
The better I got to know Nagasawa, the stranger he seemed. I had met a lot of strange people in my day, but none as strange as Nagasawa. He was a far more voracious reader than I, but he made it a rule never to touch a book by any author who had not been dead at least thirty years. “That’s the only kind of book I can trust,” he said.
“It’s not that I don’t believe in contemporary literature,” he added, “but I don’t want to waste valuable time reading any book that has not had the baptism of time. Life is too short.”
“What kind of authors do you like?” I asked, speaking in respectful tones to this man two years my senior. “Balzac, Dante, Joseph Conrad, Dickens,” he answered without hesitation.
“Not exactly fashionable.”
“That’s why I read them. If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking. That’s the world of hicks and slobs. Real people would be ashamed of themselves doing that. Haven’t you noticed, Watanabe? You and I are the only real ones in the dorm. The other guys are crap.”
This took me off guard. “How can you say that?”
“’ Cause it’s true. I know. I can see it. It’s like we have marks on our foreheads. …”