There are many joys to be had in reading. One of them is dipping into the back catalogue of an author you have historically enjoyed to uncover a gem that had escaped your notice. Let’s be honest: there is a lot of Murakami that I haven’t read, so theoretically there’s a lot of joy to be had. The only problem is that I had gone so long without making a concerted effort to get back to him.

Here, allow a generalisation: most people don’t like short stories. Sometimes it feels like the only people who enjoy reading them are the people who write them. There are many valid short story writers - my friend Julie Koh among them - and many valid short stories. But they’re not novels, so people are hesitant to even start them.

Murakami makes you forget this. The Elephant Vanishes is a collection of his work that was originally put together for the English market well ahead of its Japanese release, and it is whole wheat.

Special mentions belong to “Sleep”, an excellent examination of the temporary thrills of mania and the terrifying depths that inevitably follow; “Lederhosen”, the bizarre justification for the termination of a marriage; and “Barn Burning”, an anecdote that strangely became the much longer and less worthy film “Burning”.

For this reader, the true star of The Elephant Vanishes is “The Dancing Dwarf”, which, in its 24 pages, builds a word more effectively than many 1800 page trilogies. This is a real, breathing and grounded (albeit absurd) universe, and it is a true delight to behold. (It also anticipates Twin Peaks six years in advance)

With alternating translators, every story in The Elephant Vanishes feels slightly different: some more realistic, some more fantastic, but each tastes of Murakami. This is a good smorgasbord for someone who hasn’t given the man a chance yet, something that seasoned veterans can return to, and a reward for readers with an unintended blind spot.