What I Talk About When I Talk About Running (Vintage International)

by Haruki Murakami

To keep on going, you have to keep up the rhythm. This is the important thing for long-term projects. Once you set the pace, the rest will follow. The problem is getting the flywheel to spin at a set speed—and to get to that point takes as much concentration and effort as you can manage.

In long-distance running the only opponent you have to beat is yourself, the way you used to be.

The sounds of my footsteps, my breathing and heartbeats, all blended together in a unique polyrhythm.

I just run. I run in a void. Or maybe I should put it the other way: I run in order to acquire a void.

The thoughts that occur to me while I’m running are like clouds in the sky. Clouds of all different sizes. They come and they go, while the sky remains the same sky as always. The clouds are mere guests in the sky that pass away and vanish, leaving behind the sky. The sky both exists and doesn’t exist. It has substance and at the same time doesn’t. And we merely accept that vast expanse and drink it in.

It’s precisely my ability to detect some aspects of a scene that other people can’t, to feel differently than others and choose words that differ from theirs, that’s allowed me to write stories that are mine alone.

Sometimes, however, this sense of isolation, like acid spilling out of a bottle, can unconsciously eat away at a person’s heart and dissolve it. You could see it, too, as a kind of double-edged sword. It protects me, but at the same time steadily cuts away at me from the inside.

By running longer it’s like I can physically exhaust that portion of my discontent. It also makes me realize again how weak I am, how limited my abilities are. I become aware, physically, of these low points. And one of the results of running a little farther than usual is that I become that much stronger.

Just as a river flows to the sea, growing older and slowing down are just part of the natural scenery, and I’ve got to accept it.

Only when I’m given an actual physical burden and my muscles start to groan (and sometimes scream) does my comprehension meter shoot upward and I’m finally able to grasp something.

I haven’t spotted any springs nearby. I have to pound the rock with a chisel and dig out a deep hole before I can locate the source of creativity.

If people who rely on a natural spring of talent suddenly find they’ve exhausted their only source, they’re in trouble.

Human beings naturally continue doing things they like, and they don’t continue what they don’t like. Admittedly, something close to will does play a small part in that. But no matter how strong a will a person has, no matter how much he may hate to lose, if it’s an activity he doesn’t really care for, he won’t keep it up for long. Even if he did, it wouldn’t be good for him.

a person doesn’t become a runner because someone recommends it. People basically become runners because they’re meant to.

The most important thing we ever learn at school is the fact that the most important things can’t be learned at school.

I don’t think we should judge the value of our lives by how efficient they are.

Nothing in the real world is as beautiful as the illusions of a person about to lose consciousness.

Our muscles are very conscientious. As long as we observe the correct procedure, they won’t complain.

I have to maintain a certain tension by being unsparing, but not to the point where I burn out.

If I used being busy as an excuse not to run, I’d never run again. I have only a few reasons to keep on running, and a truckload of them to quit. All I can do is keep those few reasons nicely polished.

You have to continually transmit the object of your focus to your entire body, and make sure it thoroughly assimilates the information necessary for you to write every single day and concentrate on the work at hand. And gradually you’ll expand the limits of what you’re able to do.

Most runners run not because they want to live longer, but because they want to live life to the fullest.

My whole world consists of the ground three yards ahead. No need to think beyond that.

Reaching the finish line, never walking, and enjoying the race. These three, in this order, are my goals.

New York in November really does have a special charm to it. The air is clear and crisp, and the leaves on the trees in Central Park are just beginning to turn golden. The sky is so clear you can see forever, and the skyscrapers lavishly reflect the sun’s rays. You feel you can keep on walking one block after another without end. Expensive cashmere coats fill the windows at Bergdorf Goodman, and the streets are filled with the delicious smell of roasted pretzels.

The dawn comes, the sky grows light, and the colors and shapes of the roofs of houses, which you could only glimpse vaguely before, come into focus.