Tehehe

When it comes to the task of putting pen to paper I have observed that I have no spine of my own. I get influenced by the sharp witticisms of mark twain as easily, and strongly, as the poetic sentences of, say, italo calvino; I appreciate the minimalist chekov as much as I admire the absurd (or phantasmagorical) nature of kafka, I like ishiguro's subtle irony as much as hemingway's pronounced realism, and camus and murakami both present equally strong cases for their writings despite harping on the same old issues, albeit in widely differing styles. I have no identity of my own, I am spineless, and perhaps that is an advantage.

Anyway, since we're on this, allow me to suggest putting The Remains of the Day on your reading list. It has a most ironic, and poignant ending.