Author's Preface: I'm not generally the type of writer who likes to explain all his intentions in notes, but after writing a few chapters, I've come to think a bit of preamble is necessary simply because of the nature of the story I want to tell.

This is an AU, but I have endeavoured to capture as much of the feel of the original series that my ability as a writer can let me. All conscious changes from the canon stem from two things only: Mashiro's lack of positive influence over the characters and the fact that they are simply older and more mature. However, this is not an attempt to write a cynical, bittersweet or "realistic" story. To do so would corrupt the essence of the series. This may be an M-rated story, but I do not intend to write lemons either.

This is a story about art and what it means to be an artist. Above all, this is a love story, because all art is inspired by love of some kind. If love did not exist, then neither would art. The two are interchangeable.

I hope that for anyone who has ever considered himself or herself an artist, this story holds a special place in your heart.

Part I: The Picture of Sorata Kanda

01 – Lost in the Eye of the Beholder

After all these years, he still couldn't find it in him to desert a stray cat.

Sorata Kanda's three-room flat was hardly the ideal living quarters for felines. It was a two-hour train ride from where Sorata worked in Tokyo, tiny as a telephone box and slightly dilapidated from the outside. The building even leaned to one side. ("It's called Feng Shui, good for luck," said the Chinese landowner. "No, it's not," replied Sorata, "it's called being a piece of crap.")

Inside wasn't an awful lot better. When it rained, droplets fell through cracks in the ceiling. The central heating seemed to work sporadically, and only when Sorata needed it least. When he went to bed, he woke up with furballs stuck to his face and cats clinging to his arms and legs. He tried to put them under another blanket, but it was always the same story whenever he woke up. The same eyes peering up at him. Family, almost. It was part of Sorata's early morning routine to roll his eyes, groan, tell them off, place a milk bowl in front of them and watch them lick it clean, unable to stop himself reaching out and petting them lightly.

Once, a workmate asked him, "Why don't you just let them go?" and Sorata said, "That'd be like letting go of my humanity." He thought this statement would raise more eyebrows than it did. Then again, he supposed when it came to his work colleagues it was hard to care about much of anything when all you did was procrastinate on work for a living.

Sorata's vocation was slightly different. After getting a full-time job, his life settled into the kind of dreadful monotony that brought on premature mid-life crisis. He sorted paperwork at the office. When he was not stuck sorting his assigned paperwork, he was stuck sorting someone else's paperwork. His nickname was Doormat-kun.

"I am getting sick and tired of this," Sorata would say to his boss, day after day.

"Then I would say you are an ungrateful bastard," said his chain-smoking boss. "Work is the fabric of your very being. Work is the fire in your belly. Work is your soul. Without work, the very foundations upon which our civilisation rests would shatter. You would be a sham to society. But more importantly, you would be a sham to yourself. Could you really stand to live with that sense of guilt?"

"Don't make it sound like Armageddon!"

"Photocopy these files for me, would you, Doormat-kun? I'm trying to clock Super Mario Brothers before lunch time."

"What are these hypocritical phrases you're spouting?!"

There was, fortunately, one overriding good factor in Sorata's boring office job. It was the fact that it was a boring office job. It reeked of normalcy. The work wasn't even all that hard either. Even copping everyone else's workload, there was always still time for lunch. The hours passed by slowly and monotonously. It was the pinnacle of Sorata's existence.

His sister regularly rang the office phone to talk to him during office hours. Nobody minded. "Imouto characters are welcome at our firm," said the chain-smoking boss.

"She's not an imouto character. She's twenty-eight and she's got a boyfriend."

"Is the boyfriend you?"

"WAIT WHAT. NO. NO."

Sorata did not mention that Yuuko's boyfriend was referred to unanimously inside and outside the family as 'Sorata #2'. The physical resemblance could only have been produced by code hacking the universe. He could have been Sorata's long-lost brother. Sorata did not like Sorata #2 and Sorata #2 did not like Sorata.

"Are you taking care of yourself, onii-chan?" Yuuko asked over the phone, during work hours. "Are you ever going to get married?"

Sorata reflected.

He knew without a doubt that he was a highly attractive individual. His charm was impossible to deny. His magnanimous deeds drew others to him inexorably. Unfortunately, this only seemed to apply to cats and weirdos. There was no shortage of either in his life.

His own family was of course the worst. Sorata was terrible at keeping girlfriends but perhaps it was just as well because he never had the slightest inclination to show off his family to them. The biggest problem with meeting women was that they seemed to find everyone around Sorata more interesting than Sorata himself. They would spend dates talking about everyone except themselves. They would never touch. "Is it because I'm boring?" Sorata would ask.

"Yes," said the girlfriend, and then she would leave him. Although Sorata was getting to an age when he should be thinking about getting married, he was no closer to pulling off the deed than he was to climbing Mount Everest.

He explained this situation to Yuuko: "If my life were a dating sim, I'm pretty sure this would be the bad end."

That about summed up the current state of his affairs.

There was a teacher Sorata used to know back when he was in high school. He no longer remembered her name; high school had been mostly a fuzzy, vague experience for him. But he still remembered the teacher, mostly because Yuuko in her current form reminded him of her.

Yuuko liked to drink a lot. She also wore expensive low-cut dresses she paid for with Sorata's money. Though she had never been remotely 'sexy' (Sorata shuddered to associate such a word with his sister) she was pretty enough. But at twenty-eight, her youth was drawing to a close and with it her good looks. Yuuko voraciously chased after younger men – Sorata #2 was ten years younger than his namesake. At twenty-eight, she was still somehow girlish. But to be honest, Yuuko was most interesting when she was drunk.

Unlike most consumers of alcohol, she became exponentially more intelligent after she drank. Under alcoholic influence, she held a keen appreciation for fine arts and literature. She did weird things, like speak German (Sorata had not even known she had learnt the language). One day, while slightly tipsy, she changed Sorata's life. She asked him to watch a play with her.

"Why don't you go with Sorata #2?" Sorata asked.

"He hates arts. You know what he's like – he's such a bore."

"I feel like you're indirectly insulting me."

"Anyway, I really, really need to see the new Jin Mitaka play!"

Sorata blinked. "Did you say Jin Mitaka?"

"Yeah, why?"

"The name sounds familiar…"

"Well," said Yuuko, tossing her hair back, "he is an accomplished playwright and novelist. I'd put him on the same level as the likes of Natsume Soseki and Haruki Murakami."

"I think… I think I went to school with him."

Yuuko stared at him. Sorata could almost feel his image shifting and rearranging itself in her mind. She would never see him the same way again. Knowledge of a celebrity did that. "Are you serious?" she asked incredulously.

"I think so. The name's familiar. I don't think I knew him that well, though."

"That's amazing! My dear, beloved onii-chan, you are a genius beyond words!"

"Is that all it took to win your respect?!"

"Now you simply must come to watch the play, dearest, darling brother of mine!" Yuuko always sounded eloquent when she was drunk. "I bought a backstage pass and a dinner for two with Mitaka-sensei after the play! It will be splendid!"

"… And just who paid for these splendid things?"

"I know your credit card details like the back of my hand, onii-chan! Anyway, it's tonight, so you better get dressed."

Sorata groaned. Now he really had no choice. It was his money, after all. This was why he lived in a flat and could not afford a girlfriend.

That evening, as he fastened his tie and peered at his reflection in the mirror, he felt uneasy. No, perhaps that was too strong a word. He was too detached from his own reflection. His eyes, slightly tired yet sombre, gazed back at him. Jin Mitaka. Jin Mitaka…

He tore his gaze away from himself. It was as he was gazing out the window, noticing the bare branches of the sakura tree on the opposite side of the road, that he remembered. Sakurasou. Jin Mitaka had been a dorm member at Sakurasou.

Somehow, the memory of the word caused whatever Sorata was feeling – that sensation that was too oblique to be described as uneasiness – to well up further inside him. There was once a time he had associated strong emotions with Sakurasou. The remnants of those feelings stirred up vaguely inside of him. He wondered why he had felt that way when he had spent less than a year living inside the school dorm for problem children. The youthful mind clung to some very esoteric ideas. Sorata had never felt that old, not until he thought of Jin Mitaka and Sakurasou. Had it really been close to fifteen years?

All of a sudden, he did not want to see Jin Mitaka. Like all the problem children in Sakurasou, barring Sorata, he had captivated the world with his talent. Jin Mitaka lived in another world, and Sakurasou was an alien stronghold situated on a quiet, suburban street in Tokyo. Sakurasou – the physical world, of course – probably no longer existed. Jin Mitaka was probably nothing more than an abstraction in Sorata's mind. He would be that way right up until the very moment Sorata saw his play and breathed in his existence. He did not have to face it. He could still back out.

Sorata stood at the doorway, his hand still on the doorknob. The smoothness underneath his fingers still felt real. The wind blew against his face. "Onii-chan!" his sister called out to him, waving through the open window of her car. With a jerk, Sorata moved towards her. It felt like some cosmic force was pulling him along. The cosmic force that was Yuuko Kanda.

"Sorry," he said. "I was just caught up reminiscing."

"What was Mitaka-sensei like?"

Sorata thought about it. "A player," he said. "He always had dates with older women. For some reason, I remember that."

"Of course you'd remember the scandalous things. Was he smooth talking to women?"

"I suppose." But Sorata had only ever seen Jin interact with that one girl, the one with the large bust. He had never touched that girl. (He would remember her name soon enough.) Anyway, he had never been that close to Jin to see him in action.

"You should have asked him to teach you some moves," said Yuuko.

"Like hell I would!"

"Well, whatever. We're wasting time."

Sorata scratched the back of his head. Yuuko made him drive. Sorata's mind was blank as he drove. It only occurred to him as he was parking that he had no idea what Jin's play was about, or even what it was called.

Yuuko was powdering her nose in the passenger seat. "It's called Mushoku no Midori-iro. The Colorless Green."

"That doesn't even make any sense."

"Maybe to you, it wouldn't."

They did not exchange any more words. Yuuko was giddy as they took their seats, like a schoolgirl (most people were, when drunk). Sorata plopped himself down and felt a blankness in his mind that almost shook him. What was he meant to be feeling, watching a play someone he knew had written?

Afterwards, Sorata could not say he remembered much of the play itself. The dialogue danced around his ears. He understood their words and he understood the plot. But of the experience of actually watching the play, he could not say much for certain. The lighting distracted him. He could see every made-up detail of the actors' faces. Yuuko was silent, breathless. Sorata sat still and kept his eyes on the stage.

"Wasn't that amazing?" Yuuko said to afterwards. She spoke to him in a hushed, excited whisper. "Mitaka-sensei is really a genius!"

Sorata smiled. He felt vague and like a feather. He supposed he hadn't seen enough plays to know Jin's talent for certain. He had seen the people around him; it was all so upper-class. Snobbish, in a way. How very like Jin.

Yuuko nudged him. "There he is! There he is!"

Sorata looked up.

A tall, bespectacled man was shaking hands with one of the actors. He had a smooth-shaven face. He stood straight and tall and did not smile too hard. Jin Mitaka appeared to have noticed the two of them because after a moment, he broke off the handshake and his gaze slid over to them.

"Hello, Sorata," he said.

Abruptly, Sorata's heart started to beat frantically. He felt the blood rush to his face. "You remember me?"

He had not expected this.

Jin laughed. It was a pensive-sounding laughter, restrained in nature. "I'm a writer. I remember people by trade."

He remembered. Sorata suddenly felt small and somewhat ill. Yuuko was looking back and forth between the two of them with an air of effusive delight. "Onii-chan wasn't lying. This is too awe-inspiring!"

Sorata cleared his throat, conscious of how the embarrassment was clogging it. "So, Mitaka-sensei…"

"Call me Jin. The lovely young lady next to you, that's your sister?"

"Uh, yeah…"

"He called me lovely!" Yuuko was jumping like a hyperactive toddler. Sorata wondered why siblings could not get a divorce.

Sighing, he peered at Jin instead. He wondered how much the other man remembered about him.

But Jin was no longer looking at him. He was smiling at Yuuko. Sorata glanced away, feeling more insignificant by the second. Jin really was just as smooth as he ought to have remembered.

At dinner, Yuuko did most of the talking. Sorata sat next to her with his hands pressed against his knees and his eyes on the cutlery. The food had not yet come. This was one of those fancy high-end restaurants, he was certain. Damn it, how much did Yuuko spend on this night?

"I love your writing, Jin-san!" Yuuko babbled. "It's so refined but so raw! Wonderful!" She downed another glass of champagne.

"I'm glad you like it."

Damn it, thought Sorata again. Jin really was good at those genial smiles. Sorata felt distinctly uncomfortable at the idea of Jin flirting with his sister. It was like mixing two dangerous elements of his life that should not be mixed. They did not belong in the same world.

"Mushoku no Midori-iro," Yuuko went on, "kind of reminded me of a Haruki Murakami novel. That's a compliment, of course!"

Jin laughed. "One of his novels? I wouldn't agree with that."

"Why?"

"I dislike the use of surrealism as a thematic device," Jin explained. "Kafka on the Shore, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, IQ84… These are all good novels but I felt a greater resonance in his earlier, more down-to-earth short stories."

"I know what you mean! I loved Super Frog Saves Tokyo!"

Sorata gagged. How was a story with a title like Super Frog Saves Tokyo meant to be realistic? It sounded more like something she would come up with.

It was then Sorata remembered a name. The name was Misaki-senpai. He remembered Misaki-senpai squeezing him in a tight hug and unconsciously pressing her breasts against his back. He remembered how awkward this had felt for him back when he had lived at Sakurasou with her, when he was an adolescent, blushing schoolboy.

"How's Misaki-senpai?" he blurted out suddenly.

Jin blinked. "Who's Misaki-senpai?" asked Yuuko.

"An old friend of ours," said Jin. He was still smiling. There was something hard and jagged and almost ruthless in his eyes. Why did you ask that?

Sorata's mouth felt dry. He was suddenly conscious of stepping on a landmine. He tried to backpedal. "It's been a while so I know it's not like-"

"No, it's fine. To be honest, I haven't spoken to her in years."

…oh.

Yuuko looked at Sorata and then she looked at Jin. She blinked the confusion out of her eyes.

After that strange moment, the conversation between Yuuko and Jin proceeded without hitch. They talked about the finer details of the play. Sorata did not comprehend the talk. Then, when the food came, they ate. It felt heavy and rich inside Sorata's mouth. In spite of himself, his mind relaxed.

Halfway through the meal, Yuuko announced she was going to the toilet. Suddenly, it was just Sorata and Jin.

"Sorata."

Sorata blinked, startled.

"You haven't changed, Sorata."

"Neither have you, Jin-san."

He smiled. "Perhaps not."

Are you still seeing married women?

Silently, Sorata swallowed a mouthful of veal.

"If you're curious about Misaki, she's still in the animation business. I know that much."

"Oh, I see." Sorata swallowed another mouthful. "That's… good, I guess."

I thought you were childhood friends.

Jin leaned back, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

"Misaki and I, we never agreed on what art is."

"Art?"

"You remember what she was like. She was so energetic. Everything she drew was just so fantastical. She enjoyed every second of it."

Sorata looked down at his food. His plate was half-empty. "That's why she was so good at it."

"My scripts never excited her. For years and years, I kept trying to write for her, and it never satisfied her. I realised art for me meant suffering. I could only bring myself to write what was truth. I could only strive vainly for perfection. Our styles were fundamentally incompatible."

Sorata frowned. Art was suffering? It all went over his head. "Yuuko likes your writing," he said.

But as soon as he uttered that, he knew for Jin it wasn't enough. Perhaps it wasn't enough that everyone in the world should love his writing, because there was an alien out there who didn't.

"But that's enough nostalgia," said Jin. "How are things with you?"

They never mentioned Misaki for the rest of the night.

"Wasn't he so great? So charming?" Yuuko was still babbling incoherently as Sorata drove her home.

It seemed Jin had made a very strong impression on Yuuko. "Aren't you being unfaithful to Sorata #2?"

"It's not infidelity if your partner doesn't know about it."

"Then what would it be called?!"

Yuuko laughed. "But you know, in all seriousness, he's different from what I imagined."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"You'd understand if you read his books."

"What about his books?"

Yuuko did not answer. She had fallen asleep. Her soft snoring filled the car.

Unexpectedly, Sorata found that he did not mind their conversation being cut off so abruptly. It left him free to think.

How was he expecting Jin to be? He hadn't known. Was his outlook any different now, after seeing him? Sorata did not know the answer to that either. All he knew was that the experience had been slightly discomforting for him somehow. He couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe he was overthinking it all.

A sense of tiredness washed over him. Should he ring up work and pretend to be sick tomorrow? No, he couldn't do that. The boss would tell him off. All of a sudden, Sorata's world felt small, as if meeting Jin again had shrunk his perspective rather than broadened it. Was that what art did to a person? Or was it just Jin?

The questions were too difficult for Sorata to ponder while driving and drunk on tiredness. He put aside the questions but the weight remained in his mind.

Just as he expected, he woke up the next morning groggy and with a vaguely throbbing headache. That evening with Jin felt like it had occurred in another lifetime; it was another memory to be locked away and compartmentalised with the non-existent Sakurasou. Sorata dressed and fed his cats and had breakfast. Then he got on the train and slept while standing up.

The work was mundane. He sorted the paperwork while his colleagues drank coffee and kicked off their shoes. Some part of Sorata thought that his world would look somehow different in the morning, but everything was precisely the same. This was how his life was.

"Geez, get a grip, you people!" he said exasperatedly. This felt like uttering stock lines in a play; he had said these words so often. "Don't just sit around doing nothing!"

"Now, now, you shouldn't act like you have such a stick up your arse. It's not good for your digestion."

"Like you know what's good for my digestion!"

"Silence, Doormat-kun," said the chain-smoking boss as he walked into the cubicle. "No one wants to put up with your histrionics this early in the morning. Don't you know the rules in this place? Coffee break until twelve, and then it's time for lunch."

Sorata groaned. "Am I just a hobo who wears a tie?"

"Well, do your best to cover for us," said the boss. "I've got another pile for you to sort when you're done. Now hush. I'm trying to read." He fingered his book.

It was Mushoku no Midori-iro.

At that moment, it was like something clicked in Sorata's mind. He sat up to attention. "Jin Mitaka?"

"You know him? I'm impressed. I didn't think you'd be the type to go for deep literature."

"Can I read that?" Sorata asked the question before he knew what he was saying. It was only after he spoke that he realised that he was in fact curious to understand what Yuuko meant about Jin.

"Well, sure," said his boss, and he placed the book next to Sorata's pile of paperwork. There was room on the desk because Sorata kept it neat. "I was only rereading it. Give it back when you're done."

Sorata picked up the book and flipped its pages idly.

It was a novel. The play from last night, it seemed, had been adapted from the book. The cover of the novel was neither colorless nor green; actually, it was faint blue. The book was fairly thick but not unreasonable in size. Sorata was conscious of this nondescript paperback book taunting him somehow. It was more than he would ever be.

Sorata pushed the book away into the corner of his desk. He decided he would read it later.

He stopped at the convenience store on the way home to buy cat food. As he was waiting in line to get served, he picked up a newspaper on sheer impulse and checked the arts and entertainment section. There was a small mention of Mushoku no Midori-iro showings but it was completely overshadowed by a full page spread ("MASHIRO SHIINA TO HOLD FIRST ART EXHIBITION IN TOKYO") that frankly didn't interest Sorata. He put down the paper and paid for the cat food.

When he got home, he found an unfamiliar car parked outside his house and a man standing outside his door. The man himself was actually rather scarily familiar. It was Sorata #2. Strangely enough, Yuuko was nowhere in sight; Sorata had never seen Sorata #2 without her.

"Um," said Sorata, "what are you doing here?"

Sorata #2 was leaning with his back against the door. He appeared to have been snoozing with his arms folded. He opened his eyes, rubbed them, and stared at Sorata. He was dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. His resemblance to a schoolboy on vacation was physically striking.

"Hi," he said.

Sorata shuffled uncomfortably. Why in the hell did his sister choose to date someone who looked exactly like him?

"Would you mind moving out of the way?" he asked. "I need to feed my cats."

Sorata #2 looked at him sourly. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled out of the way. "I-It's not like I was waiting for you or anything, idiot!"

Sorata was floored. It was like looking into a mirror that spoke and interacted with him. Did he really sound like a tsundere when he talked?

"Well, it's not like I like you, either." Huffing, he opened his door. Sorata #2 quickly walked inside. "Get out!"

"I wanted to talk to you about something."

Sorata squinted at Sorata #2. Characteristically enough, Sorata #2 was not looking at him directly. Rather, he seemed incredibly fascinated by the floorboards.

"Listen," said Sorata. He searched vainly in his mind for Sorata #2's real name and completely drew a blank. "Listen, uh…"

One of his cats crawled up to Sorata #2 and licked his hand. "It's about your sister," said Sorata #2.

Sorata was prepared for this. "Look, what happened last night wasn't anything serious." He highly doubted that Jin, lady killer though he was, would actually go after Yuuko, of all people. "It was just a bit of harmless fun, I swear!"

"She told me she was out on a date with you."

"Er."

"Anyway, that wasn't what I wanted to talk about. I've been thinking maybe I should break up with her."

"Why are you telling me this?!"

Sorata #2 blushed. His cheeks were bright red. "Well, you are her brother," he mumbled.

Sorata sighed and sat down cross-legged with his hands on his knees, peering straight at Yuuko's boyfriend. This was all making less sense by the second. "Why do you want to break up with her? To be honest, I don't really care what you do either way."

"I'm thinking of going to Vienna," said Sorata #2.

"Wh-What?" spluttered Sorata.

"I want to become a professional violinist. I've been offered a scholarship in Vienna. But of course that means I have to be apart from Yuuko. Should I keep a long-distance relationship or just break things off clean now?"

Sorata did not say anything.

"Well?" Sorata #2 pressed him.

"You're a musician," said Sorata, numbly. "I didn't know you were a musician."

"I play the cello, the flute and the oboe too."

"And you want to be a professional."

"I certainly hope so."

Sorata felt a migraine coming on. So Sorata #2 was actually nothing like him after all. "Okay," was all he said.

"You didn't answer my question," said Sorata #2.

"I don't even know why you're asking me about all that," Sorata answered tartly, feeling inexplicably irritated. "Why don't you talk to Yuuko about it?"

"I did." Sorata #2 looked puzzled. "She told me to ask you about it. Maybe she thought you'd know what to do."

"Do I look like Gandalf to you?!"

"No, you look like me."

"Aren't you creeped out?" Sorata asked him. "Just a little bit?"

Sorata #2 thought about it. "I suppose so," he said. "But I love Yuuko."

"Then don't break up with her."

"Should I go to Vienna?"

"I don't know! It's your dream, isn't it?"

Sorata #2 shook his head. It was clearly not the answer he was looking for. "What would you do if you were me?" he asked.

"What would I-?"

"Tell me." His eyes were on Sorata.

Suddenly, it felt as if the entire conversation had turned itself right around. Sorata was the subject of inquisition now. It was a strange, bottomless experience; he was nothing special.

"I don't know," Sorata admitted. Then he said, "I'm not you."

Sorata #2 closed his eyes. "Yeah, I know. I'm glad."

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

The younger man opened his eyes again. "We can only be ourselves, right? That's all I meant."

He stood up, thanking Sorata and saying it was all he wanted to hear. Sorata watched him sourly as he left, wondering just what the point of the whole exercise was. It was clear Yuuko had put him up to it. He'd probably figured out what he wanted to do independently, like any normal person would.

It only occurred to Sorata after he was gone that Sorata #2 did indeed have a name – it was Tadashi. Not that it mattered anymore seeing as he was out of sight and would soon enough be out of mind. Sorata would make certain of that.

That evening, in spite of himself, a certain thought struck him as he poured a bowl of milk for the cats and watched serenely as they drank from it.

He never could bring himself to be as kind to humans as he was to cats, could he?

That night, he started reading Jin's novel.

He hadn't really been planning to do such a thing. But that colorless, green book was lying on his bench and he found himself thinking as the night drew on that a bit of light reading would be good for him. He decided to read a chapter or two before heading to bed.

On retrospect, he would find himself wondering if it had all affected him a bit more than it should have, if he should have known what would happen next. To think Yuuko's decisions would have any bearing on him at all. But thinking about it further, he knew he could not have prepared himself for it at all. In reading Jin's book, he had inextricably tied himself to his art out of pure volition. Whatever came next was just a natural case of cause and effect.

Mushoku no Midori-iro was a story about a widowed man and his vain attempt at preventing his teenaged daughter from growing up and facing the horrors of the world. Their relationship was sweet and nuanced, yet ultimately tragic. The widower became desperate and senile as more of his daughter's innocence was lost. He tore his daughter down whenever she sought to rise.

Sorata finished all 357 pages of the book in one night. The words on the page seemed to open up and swallow him deep. Jin's prose, cool and clinical, cut deep like a scalpel. There was too much ruthless honesty in it – it was as if by describing the widower, Jin was placing Sorata under a microscope too. The words made Sorata squirm; they twisted his entire being. He was helpless to defend himself against their inconceivable power and could only surrender under the torrent of their flow.

The novel described various sexual acts between the widower and several unnamed women. It was here the prose became particularly vicious and cutting. Palpable despair was etched throughout every beautifully wrought phrase. In Jin's novel, there was no love. It was in reading these scenes that Sorata felt most keenly alone.

It was all in the words again. They clawed at him. He read quickly, and yet still the words seared into his mind. He felt himself tremble, as if under the weight of giants. He was not conscious of anything but the book in his hands and the drama that played out in a world beyond his own sight.

At the end of the novel, when the widower was left utterly alone and destitute, betrayed by his daughter, Sorata felt hollow. When he put down the book, it was already morning. Sorata was not tired at all. In fact, he could not have felt more awake, for he had been startled into alertness. He put down the book, closed his eyes and frowned, trying to sort out his thoughts.

It was then he decided that he could not bring himself to love Jin's writing. The undeniable truth was that he hated it.