First Person Singular: Stories

by Haruki Murakami

“Loving someone is like having a mental illness that’s not covered by health insurance,” she said, in a flat tone, like she was reciting something written on the wall.

“I believe that love is the indispensable fuel that allows us to go on living. Someday that love may end. Or it may never amount to anything. But even if love fades away, even if it’s unrequited, you can still hold on to the memory of having loved someone, of having fallen in love with someone. And that’s a valuable source of warmth. Without that heat source a person’s heart—and a monkey’s heart,

too—would turn into a bitterly cold, barren wasteland. A place where not a ray of sunlight falls, where the wildflowers of peace, the trees of hope, have no chance to grow. I treasure the names of those seven beautiful women I loved here in my heart.” At this, the monkey laid a palm on his chest. “I plan to use these memories as my own little fuel source I burn on cold nights to keep me warm as I live out what’s left of my own personal life.”