Kafka on the Shore

by Haruki Murakami

I’m safe inside this container called me.

“You can’t look too far ahead. Do that and you’ll lose sight of what you’re doing and stumble.

We have to dust things off every once in a while, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live forever in your own private library.”

“But I still don’t know anything about life,” I protest. “Look at the painting,” he says. “And listen to the wind.”