Kafka on the Shore

by Haruki Murakami

Most things are forgotten over time. Even the war itself, the life-and-death struggle people went through, is now like something from the distant past. 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. There are just too many things we have to think about every day, too many new things we have to learn. New styles, new information, new technology, new terminology … But still, no matter how much time passes, no matter what takes place in the interim, there are some things we can never assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away. They remain with us for ever, like a touchstone.

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.

There’s only one kind of happiness, but misfortune comes in all shapes and sizes. It’s as Tolstoy said: happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story.

“You’re a strange one, aren’t you?” “People tell me that sometimes.” “I happen to like the strange ones,” the driver said. “People who look normal and live a normal life – they’re the ones you have to watch out for.”

“For the sake of argument, let’s say all your choices and all your effort are destined to be a waste. You’re still very much yourself and nobody else. And you’re forging ahead, as yourself. So relax.”

“My grandpa always said that asking questions is embarrassing for a moment, but not asking’s embarrassing for a lifetime.” “I agree. When you die, everything you know disappears.” “Well, that’s not what he meant, exactly,” Hoshino said, scratching his head.

“What is God?” The question threw Hoshino for a moment. Colonel Sanders pressed him further. “What does God look like, and what does He do?” “Don’t ask me. God’s God. He’s everywhere, watching what we do, judging whether it’s good or bad.” “Sounds like a football referee.” “Sort of, I guess.”

“Tell me, when you’re alone do you sometimes think about your partner and feel sad?” “Of course,” he says. “It happens sometimes. When the moon turns blue, when birds fly south, when –” “Why of course?” I ask. “Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves. So anyone who’s in love gets sad when they think of their lover. It’s like stepping back inside a room you have fond memories of, one you haven’t seen in a long time. It’s only a natural feeling. You’re not the person who discovered that feeling, so don’t go trying to patent it, OK?”

“There are a lot of things that aren’t your fault. Or mine, either. Not the fault of prophecies, or curses, or DNA, or absurdity. Not the fault of Structuralism or the Third Industrial Revolution. We all die and disappear, but that’s because the mechanism of the world itself is built on destruction and loss. Our lives are just shadows of that guiding principle. Say the wind blows. It can be a strong, violent wind or a gentle breeze. But eventually every kind of wind dies out and disappears. Wind doesn’t have form. It’s just a movement of air. You should listen carefully, and then you’ll understand the metaphor.”

“There’s another world that parallels our own, and to a certain degree you’re able to step into that other world and come back safely. As long as you’re careful. But go past a certain point and you’ll lose the path out. It’s a labyrinth. Do you know where the idea of a labyrinth first came from?” I shake my head. “It was the ancient Mesopotamians. They pulled out animal intestines – sometimes human intestines, I expect – and used the shape to predict the future. They admired the complex shape of intestines. So the prototype for labyrinths is, in a word, guts. Which means that the principle for the labyrinth is inside you. And that correlates to the labyrinth outside.”

“But she abandoned me. She vanished, leaving me alone where I shouldn’t be. I’m only now beginning to understand how much that hurt. So how could she do that if she really loved me?” “That’s the reality of it. It did happen,” the boy named Crow says. “You were hurt badly, and those scars will be with you for ever. I feel sorry for you, I really do. But think of it like this: it’s not too late to recover. You’re young, you’re tough. You’re adaptable. You can patch up your wounds, lift up your head and move on. But for her that’s not an option. The only thing she’ll ever be is lost. It doesn’t matter whether somebody judges this as good or bad – that’s not the point. You’re the one who has the advantage. You ought to consider that.” I don’t respond. “It all really happened, so you can’t undo it,” Crow tells me. “She shouldn’t have abandoned you then, and you shouldn’t have been abandoned. But things in the past are like a plate that’s shattered to pieces. You can never put it back as it was, right?”

“You can’t understand this, Miss Saeki, but I don’t have any world to go back to. No one’s ever really loved me, or wanted me, in my entire life. I don’t know who to count on other than myself. For me, the idea of a life I left is meaningless.” “But you still have to go back.” “Even if there’s nothing there? Even if nobody cares if I’m there or not?” “That’s not why,” she says. “It’s what I want. For you to be there.” “But you’re not there, are you?” She looks down at her hands clasping the teacup. “No, I’m not. I’m not there any more.” “What do you want from me if I do go back?” “Just one thing,” she says, raising her head and looking me straight in the eye. “I want you to remember me. If you remember me, then I don’t care if everybody else forgets.”

Time weighs down on you like an old, ambiguous dream. You keep on moving, trying to slip through it. But even if you go to the ends of the earth, you won’t be able to escape it. Still, you have to go there – to the edge of the world. There’s something you can’t do unless you get there.