A famous author falls for the woman who fell for somebody pretending to be him.

(from The New Yorker, Jan. 3, 2005, translated by Ralph McCarthy)

At the root of this story is a timeless, unsolvable question: Why does one person like another person. The rules of attraction and fallacies of deciphering them are explored through characters who can’t quite grasp the futility of their situation. “I Am A Novelist” strings together moments of comedy, sexiness, baseball, sci-fi and coincidence to tell its rather absurb story. Then ends it all with a quick slap. An interesting and entertaining read.

I would provide a link to the story, but I have not been able to find it online (unlike the last time I read a New Yorker story).

Instead check out this dramatically titled interview, Ryu Murakami: Enfant Terrible of literature.