The New York Times features an essay by Haruki Murakami on music and writing:
One of my all-time favorite jazz pianists is Thelonious Monk. Once, when someone asked him how he managed to get a certain special sound out of the piano, Monk pointed to the keyboard and said: "It can’t be any new note. When you look at the keyboard, all the notes are there already. But if you mean a note enough, it will sound different. You got to pick the notes you really mean!"
I often recall these words when I am writing, and I think to myself, “It’s true. There aren’t any new words. Our job is to give new meanings and special overtones to absolutely ordinary words.” I find the thought reassuring. It means that vast, unknown stretches still lie before us, fertile territories just waiting for us to cultivate them.
I'm not sure if everyone who reads Haruki Murakami feels the same way, but reading his books, I often feel his narrative voice lulling me into a quiet, private space. There's just him and me, at a table, and he's having a smoke. He's taking his time; there's no hurry, no place to go. He looks up, sighs, and then he starts telling me a story in his measured, deep voice. He's telling me the story of these people he knows and the strange things that happen to them.
That's how I feel when I read Haruki Murakami. It's like chilling out to some good jazz.