South of the Border, West of the Sun

Haruki Murakami

This reminded me a lot of Norwegian Wood, a less fantastic and off-the-wall, seemingly more personal story.

Everyone just keeps on disappearing. Some things just vanish, like they were cut away. Others fade slowly into the mist. And all that remains is a desert.

Something about this book made me really sad; maybe because it is another example of the varieties of losses.