I'm a huge fan of Haruki Murakami, and have read all but one or two of his books. This one didn't much do it for me, but I think the problem was more with me than with Murakami. At the moment, I'm finding myself in a place where I could use more fluff and less about screwed up young men. I'm especially in a place where the sexual fantasies and hang-ups of young men aren't of much interest to me. I admit to being an elderly, repressed Calvinist, and I wasn't able to set that part of me aside while I was reading these seven stories. I'd read several of these stories previously, probably in The New Yorker, or some such place. I think I liked them better then, but then the reading was a one-off thing, not a whole series. So, I'm suggesting one reads this collection a story at a time, with much other stuff in between revisits to this collection. At least that's what I'd have done, were I not under the gun, so to speak, to get the book read before its library due date.
Having written more-or-less of a downer of a review, no one should go to his grave without having read Murakami, and this is as good a place to begin as anywhere else.