Ever been in conversation with a total narcissist asshole and wonder “What the hell is going through your head right now?” Confessions of a Sociopath is your chance to peek into the mind of an extremely unsympathetic, self-aggrandizing person.
Books essentially are time capsules. A writer can commune with us from any time period and from any locale. Stories transcend space and time. Sometimes without rhyme or reason. That is the case with Haruki Murakami’s excellent 1994 novel “The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.”
Delivery nurse Ruth, a black woman, is given the directive not to touch the newborn baby of white supremacist Turk and his wife Brit. She is shaken by this injustice, for she has lived her life as an upstanding citizen. When the infant goes into cardiac arrest Ruth, being the only available caretaker nearby, takes a split second too long to help save his life. The baby dies at Ruth’s fingertips. Containing his grief from spilling into violence, Turk puts Ruth on trial. She now faces a life behind bars.
Like most book nerds, I was a voracious reader as a child. I reveled in the magical worlds that authors built for me. But that all changed as I grew older and moved across the pond from Germany to California. Narrative adventures took a backseat to acquiring skills in a foreign language. By the time I became a full-grown woman, books had long disappeared from my daily routine. It wasn’t that I’d lost my appetite for stories – I still loved to be taken on a joy ride in my imagination – but I did find it increasingly harder to sustain a habit that wasn’t directly benefiting the padding of my wallet.