1Q84 (1Q84, #1-3)

by Haruki Murakami

“There has to be an end somewhere. It’s just that nothing’s labeled ‘This is the end.’ Is the top rung of a ladder labeled ‘This is the last rung. Please don’t step higher than this’?” Aomame shook her head. “It’s the same thing,” Tamaru said. Aomame said, “If you use your common sense and keep your eyes open, it becomes clear enough where the end is.” Tamaru nodded. “And even if it doesn’t”—he made a falling gesture with his finger “—the end is right there.”

Fuka-Eri kept her gentle grip on Tengo’s hand until the train arrived in Kunitachi Station, near the end of the line. Her hand was unexpectedly hard and smooth, neither hot nor cold. It was maybe half the size of Tengo’s hand. “Don’t be afraid. It’s not just another Sunday,” she said, as if stating a well-known fact. Tengo thought this might have been the first time he heard her speak two sentences at once.

The Janáček section was quite small, and only one record contained Sinfonietta, a version with George Szell conducting the Cleveland Orchestra. The A side was Bartók’s Concerto for Orchestra. She

I have had this recording since I was 17

Her favorite record was a collection of W. C. Handy blues songs, performed by the young Louis Armstrong, with Barney Bigard on clarinet and Trummy Young on trombone. She gave Tengo a copy, though less for him than for herself to listen to. After sex, they would often lie in bed listening to the record. She never tired of it. “Armstrong’s trumpet and singing are absolutely wonderful, of course, but if you ask me, the thing you should concentrate on is Barney Bigard’s clarinet,” she would say.

Why can’t I love myself? It’s because I can’t love anyone else. A person learns how to love himself through the simple acts of loving and being loved by someone else. Do you understand what I am saying? A person who is incapable of loving another cannot properly love himself.

Even if you are not aware of having been granted what you possess, the gods remember what they gave you. They don’t forget a thing. You should use the abilities you have been granted with the utmost care.”

“In this world, there is no absolute good, no absolute evil,” the man said. “Good and evil are not fixed, stable entities but are continually trading places. A good may be transformed into an evil in the next second.

“How about books and videos and the like?” “I can’t think of anything I particularly want.” “How about Proust’s In Search of Lost Time?” Tamaru asked. “If you’ve never read it this would be a good opportunity to read the whole thing.” “Have you read it?” “No, I’ve never been in jail, or had to hide out for a long time. Someone once said unless you have those kinds of opportunities, you can’t read the whole of Proust.” “Do you know anybody who has read the whole thing?” “I’ve known some people who have spent a long period in jail, but none were the type to be interested in Proust.” “I’d like to give it a try,” Aomame said. “If you can get ahold of those books, bring them the next time you bring supplies.”

Tengo stood by the window and looked at the scene outside. Beyond the garden and lawn was the dark line of the pine windbreak, through which came the sound of waves. The rough waves of the Pacific. It was a thick, darkish sound, as if many souls were gathered, each whispering his story. They seemed to be seeking more souls to join them, seeking even more stories to be told.

Air Chrysalis had long since disappeared from the bestseller lists. Number one on the list now was a diet book entitled Eat as Much as You Want of the Food You Love and Still Lose Weight. What a great title. The whole book could be blank inside and it would still sell.

The lightning outside grew steadily stronger and for a while the greenish light illuminated the road, but there was no rumble of thunder. Maybe there was thunder, but he felt unfocused. It was as if he couldn’t hear it. Rainwater flowed in small rivers along the road. After wading through the water, customers came into the shop, one after another.

Surprised, he stood up, and the crowd of people at the entrance turned as one to face him. Then he saw that theirs were the faces of animals—dogs or foxes, he wasn’t sure—and the animals all wore clothes, and some of them had long tongues hanging out, licking around the corners of their mouths.

Murakami’s writer character Tengo writes in a style that evokes, but isn’t identical to, his own.

“But actually time isn’t a straight line. It doesn’t have a shape. In all senses of the term, it doesn’t have any form. But since we can’t picture something without form in our minds, for the sake of convenience we understand it as a straight line. At this point, humans are the only ones who can make that sort of conceptual substitution.”

Setting up a time travel trick?

“It seems I’ve reached a deadlock,” Tengo mumbled to the wall. “There are too many variables. Even for a former child prodigy, it’s impossible to find an answer.” The walls didn’t have a response. Nor did they express an opinion. They simply, and silently, reflected the color of the setting sun.

his sharp sense of smell and his tenaciousness. He would never let go of something once he latched onto it. Besides these, he asked himself, what other talents do I have worth mentioning? Do I have other abilities I can be proud of? Not one, Ushikawa answered himself, convinced he was right.