I don’t know how he does it every time but Murakami creeps under your skin. He becomes every single person he talks about, peels them gradually and bares the soul. Men without Women translates the agony, grief and happiness of love into seven short stories, each unravelling itself into something palpable, volatile.

His treatment of subject has aloofness and closeness, going hot and cold, sometimes almost surreal. In his world, love is found in loss and loss becomes real in love.

A relationship is never quite the way it appears and with every story in this book, you delve a little deeper into the madness, wading through intricacies and uniqueness of each. The entire body of work treats loneliness as a subject and how several men go about their lives without the women they desire. The question is, how do they really?

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