The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles is full of women being transformed by having sex with men. It’s almost a disease with this book, as common and prevalent as the author’s seemingly insatiable desire to tell us about the pants, shirt and shoes his characters are wearing, at all times. I’ve made it through half of the book but I can tell you I’m a little bit sick and tired of these orgasmic transformations and don’t believe them for a moment. It’s such a tired old bone, if you will, that a woman needs a man to complete her, to make her whole, to make her anything at all, in fact. Is this then just a stupid romance novel with wet dreams and impossible coincidences? Not exactly Kafkaesque, eh? I wish the main character was not surrounded by inscrutable beauties all of whom are just waiting to get transcendentally fucked. I also wish the main character was a little less of a douchebag himself. Oh well. And yet there are many sections that are interesting and worth reading. It’s hard to make up my mind. In the end I will probably divide the book into the parts I like and the parts I don’t, like a kid who pushes his peas to one side of the plate but gobbles up the mashed potatoes!