Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World

by Haruki Murakami

If your confusion leads you in the right direction, the results can be uncommonly rewarding.

I always say—a prejudice on my part, I’m sure—you can tell a lot about a person’s character from his choice of sofa.

“We’re normal ordinary people, just like everyone else.” “Everyone may be ordinary, but they’re not normal.”

A ritual interlude I like so much between the time I get into bed and the time I fall asleep. Having a drink in bed while listening to music and reading a book. As precious to me as a beautiful sunset or good clean air.

“I do,” the old officer nods. “I, too, remember the feeling. You are caught between all that was and all that must be. You feel lost. Mark my words: as soon as the bones mend, you will forget about the fracture.”

“There you are. Humans are immortal in their thought. Though strictly speakin’, not immortal, but endlessly, asymptotically close to immortal. That’s eternal life.”

I thought about the screws and their happiness. Maybe they were glad to be free of the eggbeater, to be independent screws, to luxuriate on white trays. It did feel good to see them happy.