The New Yorker: Fiction cover image

Rebecca Curtis Reads Haruki Murakami

The New Yorker: Fiction

CHAPTER

A Monkey With Mythomania

I wasn't at all sure how much i should accept of what he had told me over beer. It was hard to judge his story fairly. Was it really possible to steal women's names and possess them yourself? Maybe the monkey was a pathological liar. Who could say naturally? Id never heard of a monkey with mythomania before. But if a monkey could speak a human language as skilfully as he did, it wouldn't be beyond the realm of possibility for him to also be a habitual liar. I just didn't get the ling that what the shinagawa monkey had told me was a made up story. On the train ride home, i mentally replayed everything the monkey

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