On the recommendation of a trusted friend I recently read ‘A wild Sheep Chase ‘ by Haruki Murakami. It was a slightly trippy but wonderfully written book (even in translation). I particularly enjoyed a passage describing the mysterious Boss’ house and, as it’s loosely architectural, I thought I would like to share it. The passage is taken from the chapter titled ‘Wherefore the Worm Universe’ and may resonate with those who have suffered a compromise too far.
Having concluded my viewing of the grounds, I turned straight ahead and found myself facing a massive, towering structure.
It was—how shall I put it?—a painfully solitary building. Let me explain. Say we have a concept. It goes without saying that there will be slight exceptions to that norm. Now, over time these exceptions spread like stains until finally they form a separate concept. To which other exceptions crop up. It was that kind of building, some ancient life-form that had evolved blindly, toward who knows what end.
In its first incarnation, it seems to have been a Meiji-era Western-style manor. A high-ceilinged portico offered entrance to a two-story cream-colored house. The windows tall and double-hung in the true old style, the paint redone time and again. The roof was, as expected, copper-shingled, and the rain gutters as solid as a Roman aqueduct. A fine house in itself, exuding a period charm. But then some joker of an architect came along to attach another wing of the same style and color scheme onto the right side of the original structure. The intention wasn’t bad, but the effect was unpalatable. Like serving sherbet and broccoli on the same silver platter.
This unhappy combination stood untouched for several decades until someone added a stone tower off to one side. At the pinnacle of this tower was affixed a decorative lightning rod. A mistake. Lightning was meant to strike the building and burn it down.
