Torn cover, scuffed spine, see second and third images

Maybe one day I will capture the form of nothingness with it...
The nameless narrator of the novel is an exceptional portrait artist who can capture a person's face in a way that he likes himself. Everything works almost perfectly until a faceless man visits him asking for a portrait. And until his wife leaves him. He finds inner balance in mountain solitude, determined to end the creation of likenesses forever. But unexpectedly, another offer arrives - one that really cannot be refused. What follows is a whirlwind of events that twirl with him from side to side: What secret does the image of Komtur's death hide? Who exactly is the mysterious gentleman "from the house across the street" and what is his past? Why did you order your likeness for such a huge sum? And how is it possible that it is his portrait that breaks through the narrator's creative crisis and awakens the artistic spirit in him? In his phenomenal novel, Haruki Murakami once again successfully builds an increasingly complex network of questions, uncertainties and doubts. Above all of this, however, reigns the question that repeatedly returns in the work: What is wrong with the artist portraying only the best of us?