Kafka on the Shore

by Haruki Murakami

He got a good grip, carefully tightened it, then took a huge breath, let out a gut-wrenching yell, and all at once lifted the stone, holding it in the air at a forty-five-degree angle. That was the limit of his strength. Somehow, he was able to hold it in that position. He gasped, his whole body aching, his bones and muscles and nerves screaming in pain, but he wasn’t about to give up. He took in one last deep breath and gave out a battle cry, but couldn’t hear his own voice. He had no idea what he was saying. Eyes shut tight, he managed to drag out a strength he never knew he had, strength that should have been beyond him. Lack of oxygen made everything go white. One after another his nerves snapped like popping fuses. He couldn’t see or hear a thing, or even think. There wasn’t enough air. Still, he inched the stone upward and, with a final yell, tipped it over. He lost his grip, and the weight of the stone itself flipped it over. A massive thud rattled the room as if the whole building was shaking.