I liked Kafka on the Shore. I couldn’t really describe why. It was just incredibly different with types of English, American, Irish novels; let alone Chick lit. Nothing special in terms of vocabulary. After all, it was translated from Japanese. I was sure there was a lot of linguistic richness washed out when it was transferred to English, ruthlessly. But the story could drown me in. Bulelwa said it was as if the writer was on drug when he wrote it. In some sense, I agreed. There was nothing rationale about it. Everything was absurd and impossible. The chain between one story and another was vain and there was long, very long unnecessary prologue even to describe terms as simple as penis. It talked about the Entrance Stone, Living Spirits, TransGender, but it was not a science fiction. A Sci-fi would pretend everything irrational could be explained clearly to put it into our sense. But Kafka did not. Indeed, it was as if it was trying to highlight the absurdity of its content. It did not push its reader to accept it as reality but more of metaphors, metaphor of our own live. The more absurd the concept was, the more it evokes my thinking to mirror to my own experience, my real life. There was something chaotic in his writing, something unacceptable, yet, we have terms for that, it was very postmodic. Postmodernism thinking never let us drawn into their story. Instead, they would keep disturbing us with things we would not expect and only through that we would actually question ourselves.