Paper moons need to believe them (a little but insane) to make everything real. So as love is embodied and sanctified and sanctified. So as the light is embraced. Or as the paper moons rise to the city of cats, in this indefinable decade, in the primordial era of 1Q84, the Japanese and world year of the biggest question mark. Of the big question. Of the big vacuum. Amona and Tenngo desperately search for each other, to fill the void of the planet with love, to enrich the question and begging of themselves with love. Foreign purposes and destinations written in the basement, the murder, the revenge, the punishment, a ghost writer, a minor bride, intercourse as denaturing, transferring to the same place, in the timing of the meeting. In the timing of an invisible kiss. Murakami's much-talked-about magnum opus is an unprecedented narrative spree, a festival of words, images, senses and, when the spectacular ends, what remains is nothing more than a simple - and therefore incomprehensible - love story, a love story, a love story In the disarming, insane, redemptive hold of hands.