The City and Its Uncertain Walls

by Haruki Murakami

“When you have a plate on top of your head it’s best not to look up at the sky.”

The visceral sense that this reality isn’t a reality for me, and the deep sense of estrangement that it produced, wasn’t something I could share with anyone else.

Standing there alone, I always felt sad, a deep sadness I’d felt before, long, long ago. I remembered that sadness very well. A sadness that can’t be explained, that doesn’t melt away over time, that quietly leaves invisible wounds, in a place you cannot see. And how can you deal with something you can’t see? I looked up, listening carefully to see if I could catch the sound of the flowing river. But I heard nothing, not even the wind. Clouds were pinned in place in the sky. I quietly closed my eyes, waiting for tears to well up and trickle down my face. But that unseen sadness wouldn’t even allow me to cry.

I didn’t give any opinion. A dead person appears before you and says he doesn’t know whether the soul exists or not—what sort of comeback could you possibly have?