The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Hard Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, Norweigian Wood, and Dance Dance Dance, by Haruki Murakami: The translation from Japanese to English makes Murakami's writing seem rather simplistic, which I think is part of his charm. Lots of food, bizarre phenomena and thirty-five year old men lusting after fifteen-year old girls. Good shit. This guy can seriously make you turn a page.
The Sand Pebbles, by Richard McKenna: Not bad, if you're into pre-revolutionary Chinese military and/or American Naval history. McKenna seems to come from the Love Boat school of romantic stylings, where men propose to women after knowing them for three days. Other than that, it's worth a look if you're into historical fiction or over fifty.
Midnight's Children, by Salman Rushdie: Rushdie's first major work, and by all accounts his best. It took me a while to warm up to it, but it's an engaging account of life in post-colonial India and Pakistan, for what it's worth.
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, by Hunter S. Thompson: I get it, but I sort of don't. It's brilliant in its way, but I get the impression that if Thompson submitted a proposal for this in 2006 -- which would be rather hard to do, considering -- publishers would ignore the shit out of it. But like I said, I get it.
All the Pretty Horses, The Crossing, Cities of the Plain and No Country for Old Men, by Cormac McCarthy: I got on a Western kick last month. And besides, you have to admire a guy who can get books published without using quotation marks on his dialogues.
The Brothers Bulger, by Howie Carr: I know you're out there, Whitey.
On deck: Portnoy's Complaint, by Phillip Roth and Kafka on the Shore, by Murakami.