Reading Kazuo Ishiguro’s An Artist of the Floating World continually brought back these images of my first Mogwai encounter, for I imagine that the Migi-Hidari must have fostered a similar atmosphere as that establishment that houses several great minds every single night. Also, the nostalgic tone of the novel evokes the melancholy required of me to look back at that crucial part of my life without so much as dread or guilt or bitterness as simply a kind of calm, if sad, taking-stock-of-how-far-one-has-come kind of attitude.

I love An Artist of the Floating World; it is now officially my favorite Ishiguro work. (And I send my thanks to Jenn Soriano who bought me a copy at Kinokuniya, as I couldn’t find it in any of the local bookstores.)

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