Have you ever watched a great illusionist very closely and tried to spot the single moment, that split second, that explains how the magic trick happened? That’s how I feel when I read Haruki Murakami.  I can’t count the number of occasions that I’ve read and re-read one of his paragraphs, sometimes a single sentence, trying to identify how he does it.  How he creates such memorable, affecting stories from such simple words.  How he conjures up the strange, yet instantly recognizable world of “Murakami Man”.

The latest collection by Haruki Murakami has seven short stories, all focusing on a single theme: men remembering women from their past.  In one story, Drive My Car, a successful actor describes to his chauffeuse his meetings with his dead wife’s lover.  In another and, in my view, the best story in the collection (An Independent Organ), a philandering plastic surgeon recalls for an acquaintance the experience of falling in love.  In Kino, a bar owner describes a single encounter with a woman customer that changed his life.   The stories stand alone but the thread connecting them all is the narrator/protagonist: the slightly cold, detached, ironic, troubled men who seem capable of deep feeling only when looking back at events long past and remembering the women no longer in their lives.

Those who pounce on his books the moment they’re published – I’m one of them – will be delighted by this new collection, even though (perhaps because?) there is much that’s so familiar.  The tales and their settings may change slightly from story to story, from novel to novel, but the strange, distinctive, unforgettable voice of Murakami persists and it’s a voice like no other in contemporary fiction.

Should horror seem more horrifying just because it happens in a place you know well?

I woke this morning in London to reports of yet more violence in the city, of attacks targeted once again at innocent people.  The victims this time were on London Bridge and in Borough Market, places I know very well.  At least some of the dead and injured were in a pub in which I sat with my family last summer as we enjoyed a day on the South Bank and in nearby Bermondsey.  I remember so vividly the thousands of people thronging the food market that day, tourists and locals alike enjoying one of the most colorful and vibrant areas in the city, a place that’s so much a part of the amazing renaissance of London in recent years, a re-birth that’s embraced neighborhoods previously neglected, like Bermondsey and Borough.

It’s impossible to shift from my imagination this morning images of what happened last night in a place I know so well.  Familiarity provokes immediacy and that feels especially true with events as horrific as those last night in London.

I grew up a short walk from Regent’s Park.  For much of my childhood it was simply the place I went with friends to play football, and I don’t suppose I gave much thought to how lucky I was to have nearly 500 acres of green space on my doorstep.  I knew nothing of its long history and paid no attention to its many features.  It had grass, lots of grass, and that’s all I wanted.

I strolled through the park recently on a warm, sunny morning, simply using it as a short cut from Camden Town to Marylebone.  I hadn’t been there for many years and had forgotten how lovely it is.  It’s a place stuffed full of treasures: rose gardens, historical monuments, an open air theater, and, of course, London Zoo.  It has one of my favorite fountains, endowed by “a wealthy Parsee gentleman of Bombay as a token of gratitude to the people of England for the protection enjoyed by him and his Parsee fellow countrymen under the British rule in India”.  Best of all, Regent’s Park, in spite of its size, feels like a community park, a place to be enjoyed by Londoners, with none of the “keep off the grass” nonsense you see elsewhere.  And it still has hundreds of kids playing football.

Eddy Bellegueule grew up in a small village in northern France in the 1990s.  There was no belle vie for Eddy, no French rural idyll.  Raised in poverty and surrounded by violence and ignorance, his upbringing couldn’t have been further from the France of the popular imagination.  A tough upbringing was made immeasurably harder by the classmates who bullied and tortured him – without mercy or respite – for being gay.

A thinly fictionalized account of his childhood, The End of Eddy was a sensation when it was published in France in 2014, selling more than 300,000 copies and making a literary celebrity of the 21 year-old author who was once Eddy Bellegueule but is now Édouard Louis.  It’s not immediately obvious why.  It’s certainly not the quality of the writing, which – at least in the English translation I read – is workmanlike.  Perhaps what lies at the heart of the book’s extraordinary success is our love for stories of survival and redemption, our delight at seeing beauty flower in the most terrible conditions and against such adversity.  Eddy’s end would have been unbearable if it hadn’t marked the beginning of Édouard.

The recent presidential elections in France have helped to highlight the rise of fascist parties and the disillusionment among the poor and hopeless that feeds them.  The End of Eddy is more than a “misery memoir”; it illuminates places blighted by recession, lives untouched by the prosperity enjoyed elsewhere, and communities entirely marginalized and forgotten.

The picture books I used to read with my children were long ago packed away in boxes and consigned to the attic.  In a home filled with books, some of the best-loved stories – of bears and gorillas, adventures on the moon and in faraway lands – are no longer on view.  Even so, with a little effort, it’s easy to remember them, the books that taught my kids to read, dream, and imagine.

It’s been a long time since I read a picture book, but I recently won an assortment of books in a fundraising raffle that included Peter Sís’s The Wall.  It’s a wonderful book and worthy of the many prizes it received, but by no means is it a book exclusively for kids.  It tells the story of the author’s upbringing behind the Iron Curtain, in post-war Czechoslovakia, and recounts what it was like to live during the Prague Spring before the Soviet tanks rolled in, crushing everything in their path in 1968.  Through a series of intricate drawings, predominantly grey to emphasize the colorlessness of life under a totalitarian regime, Sís conveys brilliantly the constraints, the monotony, and the miserable uniformity, lightened only by occasional glimpses of the symbols of Western freedom: blue jeans, The Beatles, and The Beach Boys.

This novel, by Thomas Mogford, irritated me so frequently that I almost did something I almost never do: toss it aside before completing it.  I didn’t, but that says more about my persistence or stubbornness than it does about the book.  The problem is the writing: the plodding, lifeless prose, the abundance of clichés, the sheer triteness of it all.  OK, I get it.   No one picks up a detective novel and expects great writing, right?  Well, to use a well-worn phrase that Mr. Mogford would probably be unable to resist, I beg to differ.  There are plenty of novelists working in the genre who write beautifully.  Benjamin Black, for example, or Susan Hill, or the incomparable John Le Carré.  Here, even the plot, the ingredient that rescues most mystery fiction, was dull and predictable. Sleeping Dogs did something so few books do.  Something unforgivable.  It wasted my time.

The teachers in my Catholic boarding school in England, believing that “the devil finds work for idle hands”, liked to fill the schoolboys’ every waking hour with useful activity.  Twice a week we had “reading periods”.  The entire grade would gather in a large room for an hour and we would be allowed to read whatever books we chose from the school library, as long as they were appropriately high-minded.  The sessions were held mostly in silence, but the French teacher always provided classical music in the background.   His tastes were narrow, conservative, but impeccable, and it was in these classes that I first listened to the work of composers such as Mozart, Schubert, and Mendelssohn.  Later, in university, I bought a turntable and started to collect vinyl records.

Deutsche Grammophon was perhaps the leading label of the day, and the Berlin Philharmonic, led by the imperious and impossibly glamorous Herbert von Karajan, was its star.  I tried to collect as much of the orchestra’s work as I could afford.  For a time, the sound of orchestral music was inseparable for me from the sound of the Berlin Philharmonic.  I longed to hear them perform live.  Going to Berlin wasn’t a realistic prospect in those days, so I was determined to get my hands on a ticket during one of the orchestra’s rare visits to London.  It must have been 1987 or 1988 at the Royal Festival Hall, an all-Brahms program, conducted by my hero, von Karajan.  I remember the orchestra playing in casual clothes that evening, their concert tails having been misplaced by the airline.  I was spellbound the whole concert, by the sight of von Karajan and the sound of his orchestra.

Fast forward 30 years and I find, to my amazement, that I haven’t been to a Berlin Phil concert since that unforgettable evening in London in the 1980s.   All the more amazing given that I’ve been a regular visitor to Berlin throughout those years. Time to correct that and time for a new milestone – a visit to the orchestra’s home, the Philharmonie.  I recently bought a ticket for a concert performance of Tosca under the baton of maestro Simon Rattle.  It was a wonderful evening of gorgeous music.  Was it as memorable as the London concert?  Ask me in 30 years.

A great bookshop feels curated.  As you wander around, browsing the shelves and table-tops, you sense a presiding influence and intelligence.  This is no random collection of books, thrown together haphazardly.  There’s a force behind it: a discerning, discriminating, opinionated mind.  This is a community bookshop.  Not a community defined by place, but a community of interest with a clear-sighted taste-maker in charge.  You sense some explicit bloody-mindedness.  “If you don’t like what we stock, turn around and walk out”.

do you read me?! is the archetypal curated bookshop.  It can be found in a pretty part of Berlin-Mitte.  Its neighbors are the small galleries and coffee shops you find all over the quiet, charming streets near St. Hedwig’s hospital and the old Jewish cemetery.  I was wandering around and exploring the area, so it was pure happenstance that I discovered the store. It’s a place with a clear focus, though not necessarily one that’s easy to put into words.  It covers the many intersections where design, fashion, architecture, and politics meet.  Force me to summarize its inventory and I’d say “contemporary culture” (with a decidedly European twist).  As you might expect, it’s heavy on small-circulation, independent magazines and journals.  Books are less prominent, but I uncovered a few gems I can’t imagine finding in more mainstream bookshops, and came away with a copy of Walter Benjamin’s Berlin Childhood Circa 1900.

Some cities get bookshops that capture and encapsulate them perfectly at a particular moment in time.  Berlin, with its counter-cultural, forward-looking, and confident energy has do you read me?!

Measuring the population of the world’s largest cities is a complicated and somewhat competitive business.  Whatever method you prefer, at 24 million people Shanghai gets close to the top of everyone’s list.  Getting an impression of such a huge place in a short time isn’t easy.  I recently spoke at a conference in Shanghai (my first time there) and had the opportunity to spend a little more than a day checking out the city.

My first proper look was an early morning, bird’s-eye view when I opened the curtains in my 56th floor room at Le Royal Meridien.  I looked down on the Huangpu river as it twisted through a forest of skyscrapers that stretched as far as I could see.  A few of the buildings – the Shanghai Tower (the tallest in China) and the World Financial Centre, for example – stood out from an otherwise undistinguished mass of tall buildings.  Later in the day, walking along the Bund, I was able to see some of the beautiful historical buildings that grew up at the turn of the 20th century when this was the financial powerhouse of east Asia.

However glossy the center of Shanghai might be, with its hundreds of brand-name stores lining Nanjing Road, within a block or two you can find small and surprisingly quiet streets with tiny shops selling a mass of merchandise.  A little further afield is the French Concession, a residential and retail area set up in the 1840s that’s now very popular with visitors, housing small artisans’ stores and cafés in areas such as Tianzifang.  I ended my day’s stroll in the Jade Buddha Temple,  Most recently established in 1928, it’s a compound of buildings that houses numerous devotional statues, including two beautiful white jade Buddhas brought from Burma.

I’ve visited a few other cities in China: Beijing, Wuhan, Hangzhou, and Nanjing.  Shanghai seemed to me, on the basis of my brief stay, one of the most interesting and distinctive.  Also one of the most paradoxical: bustling yet often calm, huge but occasionally intimate, modern and historic.  If an opportunity arises for a longer visit, I’m certainly going to take it.

Here’s something I never thought I would say.  I’m starting to like Beijing.  I’ve been visiting once or twice a year for the past decade, usually staying a few days on each occasion, but I never formed much of a connection with the city.  I have to be honest – it has always struck me as a peculiarly featureless place, and the choking pollution and the horrible traffic haven’t helped much.

So, what’s changed?  Well, the weather for one thing. On my most recent visit, a warm sun shone every day in a bright blue sky and there was barely a trace of the smog that normally covers the city.  The lilac and cherry trees were heavy with blossom, brightening streets that previously seemed dull.  It’s hard to overstate what a difference these things made.  Beijing felt somehow washed or re-painted, making familiar places such as the Forbidden City look different.  Mutianyu, a section of The Great Wall that I’ve visited several times, was especially transformed.  As I walked along the wall with my family, it was possible to see distant stretches invisible on previous visits and get a glimpse of the extraordinary scale of the place.  Flowering cherry trees close to the wall made it even more picturesque.

Beijing will never be one of my favorite cities, but I’m going to try to be more even-handed about it in the future.  Go in the springtime and check the weather forecast – that’s my advice.