Wind/Pinball: Two Novels

by Haruki Murakami

“Hey,” he said. “Didn’t the Rat tell you anything?” “Nope.” “That’s strange.” “Really?” J stood there for a minute, polishing the glass in his hand. “I bet he wants to talk to you about whatever it is.” “Then why doesn’t he?” “He’s afraid. That you’ll make fun of him.” “I would never do that.” “Still, it looks like that sometimes. That’s how I’ve always seen it, anyway. You’re a sweet kid, but part of you seems—how should I put this?—above it all, like a Zen monk or something…It’s not really a criticism.” “No offense taken.”

If I stuck gardenias in my ears and flippers on my hands some people might stop and turn around. But that would be it. Three steps more and they would already have forgotten me.

The empty restaurant was so quiet we could almost hear the lobsters’ antennae moving.

Maybe it’s time to retire, the Rat thought. I was eighteen when I had my first beer in this bar. Since then there have been thousands of beers, thousands of orders of French fries, thousands of records on the jukebox. Like waves lapping the sides of a barge, they’ve all come and gone.

I've been referring to when I stopped drinking as 'retirement' since it happened in 2015. This is the first I've seen anybody else do that. Weird variation of a small world.

“Where are you going?” “To play pinball. I’m not sure where.” “Pinball?” “Yeah. You know, hitting balls with flippers.” “Of course I know. But why pinball?” “Why? This world is rife with matters philosophy cannot explain.”

I’m living with twins right now. They make really great coffee.