The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

by Haruki Murakami

The young soldier had never visited a zoo in his life, nor had he ever seen a real tiger before. Which was partly why he couldn’t quite believe that they had just succeeded in killing a real, live tiger. He felt only that he had been dragged into a place that had nothing to do with him and had there been forced to perform an act that had nothing to do with him.

Reality spilled out into the alley like water from an overfilled bowl—as sound, as smell, as image, as plea, as response.

I feel as if the world is listening for my next thought. But I can’t think of anything. Sorry, but I just can’t think of anything.