Kafka on the Shore

by Haruki Murakami

Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing direction. You change direction, but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverised bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

All you hear over and over and over is the voice of this omen. And sometimes this prophetic voice pushes a secret switch hidden deep inside your brain.

troubled by the prophecy perhaps

Your heart is like a great river after a long spell of rain, spilling over its banks. All signposts that once stood on the ground are gone, inundated and carried away by that rush of water. And still the rain beats down on the surface of the river. Every time you see a flood like that on the news you tell yourself: That’s it. That’s my heart.

I’m stuck with my father’s long, thick eyebrows and the deep lines between them. I could probably kill him if I wanted to – I’m definitely strong enough – and I can erase my mother from my memory.

father's son

A mechanism buried inside me. A mechanism buried inside you.

The omen is still with me, though, like a shadow. I check to make sure the wall around me is still in place.

not sure about which omen

The glittering airplane we saw way up in the sky

mystery ?

We left the main trail up the hill and went along a trampled-down path that went up the slope of the woods. It was pretty steep. After we’d been going for about ten minutes we came to a clearing, a broad area as flat as a table top. Once we’d entered the woods it was completely still, and with the sun blocked out it was chilly, but when we stepped into that clearing it was as if we were in a miniature town square, with the sky bright above us. My class often stopped at this spot whenever we climbed Owan yama. The place had a calming effect, and somehow made us all feel nice and cozy.

forest descroption

there was one child, a boy, who didn’t regain consciousness. One of the children evacuated from Tokyo. Satoru Nakata,

Becoming a different person might be hard, but taking on a different name is child’s play.

From the chair I watch how she carries herself, every motion natural and elegant. I can’t express it well, but there’s definitely something special about it, as if her retreating figure is trying to tell me something she couldn’t express while she is facing me. But what this is, I have no idea. Face it, I remind myself – there’re tons of things you have no idea about.

That bottomless world of darkness, that weighty silence and chaos, was an old friend, a part of him already.

We’re so caught up in our everyday lives that events of the past, like ancient stars that have burned out, are no longer in orbit about our minds.

but I need Crow’s help – need him to appear from wherever he is, spread his wings wide and search out the right words for me.

He has no sense that it was something he decided to do himself, or that he had a choice. He’s … totally passive. But I think in real life people are like that. It’s not so easy to make choices on your own.”

It’s as Goethe said: everything’s a metaphor.”

Once I start bleeding I have to go to the hospital.

oshima and blood

“It’s a different kind of risk. Whenever I drive I try to go as fast as I can. If I’m in an accident driving fast I won’t only end up getting a cut finger. If you lose a lot of blood, there’s no difference between a haemophiliac and anybody else. It evens things out, since your chances of survival are the same. You don’t have to worry about things like blood coagulation or anything, and can die without any regrets.”

works that have a certain imperfection to them have an appeal for that very reason – or at least they appeal to certain types of people. Just like you’re attracted to Soseki’s The Miner. There’s something in it that draws you in, more than more fully realised novels like Kokoro or Sanshiro. You discover something about that work that tugs at your heart – or maybe we should say that the work discovers you. Schubert’s Sonata in D Major is like that.”

that a certain type of perfection can only be realised through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect.

People soon get tired of things that aren’t boring, but not of what is boring.

What’s that all about. For me, I might have the leisure to be bored, but not to grow tired of something. Most people can’t distinguish between the two.”

solitude comes in different varieties.

It’s all a question of imagination. Our responsibility begins with the power to imagine. It’s just as Yeats said: In dreams begin responsibility. Turn this on its head and you could say that where there’s no power to imagine, no responsibility can arise. Just as we see with Eichmann.

Silence, I discover, is something you can actually hear.

Like flowers scattered in a storm, man’s life is one long farewell, as they say.”

Closing your eyes isn’t going to change anything. Nothing’s going to disappear just because you can’t see what’s going on. In fact, things will be even worse the next time you open your eyes. That’s the kind of world we live in, Mr Nakata. Keep your eyes wide open. Only a coward closes his eyes. Closing your eyes and plugging up your ears won’t make time stand still.”

reality’s just the accumulation of ominous prophecies come to life.