Kafka on the Shore

by Haruki Murakami

I don’t know anything about her health. For all I know she might be saddled with a disease like that. I think it’s more of a psychological issue. The will to live—something to do with that.” “You’re saying she’s lost the will to live?” “I think so. Lost the will to go on living.” “Do you think she’s going to kill herself?” “No, I don’t,” Oshima replies. “It’s just that very quietly, very steadily, she’s heading toward death. Or else death is heading toward her.” “Like a train heading toward the station?” “Something like that,” Oshima said, and stopped, his lips taut. “But then you showed up, Kafka. Cool as a cucumber, mysterious as the real Kafka. The two of you were drawn together and, to use the classic expression, you have a relationship.” “And then?” For a brief moment Oshima lifts both hands off the wheel. “That’s it.” I slowly shake my head. “I bet you’re thinking I’m the train.” Oshima doesn’t say anything for a long time. “Exactly,” he finally says. “That’s it, exactly.”