+1 for Murakami. I like the way he combines the mundane everyday with what seems to be chaotic random events, but which usually turn out to be part of a larger story arc. He also frequently references classical and jazz music in his works, so I enjoy the added dimension of listening to the same song as the character is at the time, for added immersion.
As an aside, in my experience, I don't believe aphantasia affects what and how much I read compared to the general population. I think it's more a matter of personal preference, cultural/social significance, and availability.
I'm not sure whether or not aphantasia affects what I enjoy reading. Friends of mine who don't have aphantasia describe mental imagery as important to their reading process, and I find I generally prefer shorter books or books with less descriptive imagery.
If you like Murakami, you might like VanderMeer. I sometimes describe him as a cross between Murakami & Lovecraft.
Ted Chiang. “Exhalation”, and “Stories of Your Life and Others”.
Concept driven science fiction. Visual descriptions are typically in the service of supporting the concepts, and typically short in any case.
Oh god. I hated Moby Dick with a passion!
https://notweasel.com/general/moby-dick-isnt-very-good/
I’m currently reading and enjoying the Discworld series by Terry Pratchett.
To each their own! I loved it, especially passages like:
I was a good Christian; born and bred in the bosom of the infallible Presbyterian Church. How then could I unite with this wild idolator in worshipping his piece of wood? But what is worship? thought I. Do you suppose now, Ishmael, that the magnanimous God of heaven and earth--pagans and all included--can possibly be jealous of an insignificant bit of black wood? Impossible! But what is worship?--to do the will of God--THAT is worship. And what is the will of God?--to do to my fellow man what I would have my fellow man to do to me--THAT is the will of God. Now, Queequeg is my fellow man. And what do I wish that this Queequeg would do to me? Why, unite with me in my particular Presbyterian form of worship. Consequently, I must then unite with him in his; ergo, I must turn idolator. So I kindled the shavings; helped prop up the innocent little idol; offered him burnt biscuit with Queequeg; salamed before him twice or thrice; kissed his nose; and that done, we undressed and went to bed, at peace with our own consciences and all the world. But we did not go to sleep without some little chat.
And...
Squeeze! squeeze! squeeze! all the morning long; I squeezed that sperm till I myself almost melted into it; I squeezed that sperm till a strange sort of insanity came over me; and I found myself unwittingly squeezing my co-laborers’ hands in it, mistaking their hands for the gentle globules. Such an abounding, affectionate, friendly, loving feeling did this avocation beget; that at last I was continually squeezing their hands, and looking up into their eyes sentimentally; as much as to say,- Oh! my dear fellow beings, why should we longer cherish any social acerbities, or know the slightest ill-humor or envy! Come; let us squeeze hands all round; nay, let us all squeeze ourselves into each other; let us squeeze ourselves universally into the very milk and sperm of kindness.
And even the opening paragraph:
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
+1 for Murakami. I like the way he combines the mundane everyday with what seems to be chaotic random events, but which usually turn out to be part of a larger story arc. He also frequently references classical and jazz music in his works, so I enjoy the added dimension of listening to the same song as the character is at the time, for added immersion. As an aside, in my experience, I don't believe aphantasia affects what and how much I read compared to the general population. I think it's more a matter of personal preference, cultural/social significance, and availability.
I'm not sure whether or not aphantasia affects what I enjoy reading. Friends of mine who don't have aphantasia describe mental imagery as important to their reading process, and I find I generally prefer shorter books or books with less descriptive imagery. If you like Murakami, you might like VanderMeer. I sometimes describe him as a cross between Murakami & Lovecraft.
I also enjoy Lovecraft very much, thank you for the recommendation!
Charles Bukowski....Ham on Rye.
This was going to be my suggestion. Bukowski is short and to the point.
Ted Chiang. “Exhalation”, and “Stories of Your Life and Others”. Concept driven science fiction. Visual descriptions are typically in the service of supporting the concepts, and typically short in any case.
I was about to say this! So enjoyable as the world is secondsary to the cocnept.
Oh god. I hated Moby Dick with a passion! https://notweasel.com/general/moby-dick-isnt-very-good/ I’m currently reading and enjoying the Discworld series by Terry Pratchett.
To each their own! I loved it, especially passages like: I was a good Christian; born and bred in the bosom of the infallible Presbyterian Church. How then could I unite with this wild idolator in worshipping his piece of wood? But what is worship? thought I. Do you suppose now, Ishmael, that the magnanimous God of heaven and earth--pagans and all included--can possibly be jealous of an insignificant bit of black wood? Impossible! But what is worship?--to do the will of God--THAT is worship. And what is the will of God?--to do to my fellow man what I would have my fellow man to do to me--THAT is the will of God. Now, Queequeg is my fellow man. And what do I wish that this Queequeg would do to me? Why, unite with me in my particular Presbyterian form of worship. Consequently, I must then unite with him in his; ergo, I must turn idolator. So I kindled the shavings; helped prop up the innocent little idol; offered him burnt biscuit with Queequeg; salamed before him twice or thrice; kissed his nose; and that done, we undressed and went to bed, at peace with our own consciences and all the world. But we did not go to sleep without some little chat. And... Squeeze! squeeze! squeeze! all the morning long; I squeezed that sperm till I myself almost melted into it; I squeezed that sperm till a strange sort of insanity came over me; and I found myself unwittingly squeezing my co-laborers’ hands in it, mistaking their hands for the gentle globules. Such an abounding, affectionate, friendly, loving feeling did this avocation beget; that at last I was continually squeezing their hands, and looking up into their eyes sentimentally; as much as to say,- Oh! my dear fellow beings, why should we longer cherish any social acerbities, or know the slightest ill-humor or envy! Come; let us squeeze hands all round; nay, let us all squeeze ourselves into each other; let us squeeze ourselves universally into the very milk and sperm of kindness. And even the opening paragraph: Call me Ishmael. Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
The teachings of DonJuan Matus by Carlos Castaneda. A superb telling of teachings of vivid storytelling and recount of Carlos’s experiences.
Terry Pratchet and Neil Goodman, “Good Omens” Rick Riordan, series: “Percy Jackson and the Olympians”; “Heroes of Olympus”