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the sonata itself is imperfect.
Works that have a certain imperfection to them have an appeal for that very reason—or at least they appeal to certain types of people.
They have to be careful, though, or else all those extra devices destroy the dignity of the piece. Then it’s not Schubert’s music anymore. Every single pianist who’s played this sonata struggles with the same paradox.”
A dense, artistic kind of imperfection stimulates your consciousness, keeps you alert.
a certain type of perfection can only be realized through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect.
People soon get tired of things that aren’t boring, but not of what is boring.
You might think Japan’s a small country, that there’s no chance you could get lost in a forest. But once you get lost in these woods, believe me, you stay lost.”
you’re out of range. And of course a radio won’t work either. You’re cut off from the world. You should be able to get a lot of reading done.”
He managed to get by on the subsidy alone, so he could spend his cat-finding fees as he wished, and for him it seemed like a substantial amount. Sometimes, though, he couldn’t come up with any idea of how to spend it, other than enjoying his favorite grilled eel.
Being able to converse with cats was Nakata’s little secret. Only he and the cats knew about it.
Sometimes people would walk by when he was deep in conversation with a cat, but they never seemed to care. It wasn’t so unusual, after all, to see old folks talking to animals as if they were people.
His neat appearance also helped. Poor though he was, Nakata enjoyed bathing and doing laundry, and the nearly brand-new clothes his clients often gave him only added to his clean-cut look. Some of the clothes—a salmon pink Jack Nicklaus golf shirt, for instance—didn’t exactly suit him, but Nakata didn’t mind as long as they were neat and clean.
“Crouch on pavement, Kawara’s in trouble,” Kawamura said. He seemed to want to convey something to Nakata, but the old man didn’t have a clue and he said so.
“Kawara’s shouting tied.” Nakata was even more lost.
stare right through him. The cats here were particularly adept at giving someone the cold shoulder. They must have had some pretty awful experiences with humans, Nakata decided. He was in no position to demand anything of them, and didn’t blame them for their coldness. He knew very well that in the world of cats he would always be an outsider.
“I’m grateful for the sardine, don’t get me wrong. But I can’t talk about that. I’ll be in hot water if I do.”
“A dangerous, nasty business, it is. I think you’d better write that cat off. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from this place. I don’t want you to get in trouble. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, but just consider this warning my way of thanking you for the food.”
But the world was full of many things Nakata couldn’t hope to fathom, so he gave up thinking about
It was nearly evening when the dog showed up in front of him. A huge, black dog suddenly appeared from out of the thicket, silently lumbering forward. From where Nakata sat, the beast looked more like a calf than a dog. It had long legs, short hair, bulging, steely muscles, ears as sharp as knife points, and no collar. Nakata didn’t know much about breeds of dogs, but one glance told him this was the vicious variety, or at least one that could turn mean if it had to. The kind of dog the military used in its K-9 corps.
The dog was talking! Not really talking, since its mouth wasn’t moving—but communicating through some means other than speech. Stand up and follow me! the dog commanded.
indeed some people shot him reproachful looks. This made him sad. I’m not doing this because I want to, he wanted to explain to them. Nakata’s being led by this dog, he wanted to say. Nakata’s not a strong person, but a weak one.
This dog was used to getting his way.
he knew they might not even be in Nakano Ward anymore. He craned his neck, trying to spot familiar landmarks, but no such luck. This was a part of the city he’d never seen before.
One hand was raised to the brim of his hat, like he was tipping it politely to a lady. His left hand gripped a black walking stick by the round, gold knob. Looking at the hat, Nakata suddenly thought: This must be the cat-catcher!
The kind of face it was hard to remember, especially since it was his unusual clothes that caught the eye.
“Anyone who enjoys whisky would recognize me right away, but never mind. My name is Johnnie Walker. Johnnie Walker. Most everyone knows who I am. Not to boast, but I’m famous all over the world. An iconic figure, you might say. I’m not the real Johnnie Walker, mind you. I have nothing to do with the British distilling company. I’ve just borrowed his appearance and name. A person’s got to have an appearance and name, am I right?”
“I never ask the impossible. That’s a colossal waste of time, don’t you agree?”
Like it was lying in wait for me, silence wraps itself around me tightly once I’m alone.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
Apparently it barely crossed his mind to question the morality of what he was doing.
Strangely, the guy never felt any remorse.
Wasn’t he doing just what any good bureaucrat would do? So why was he being singled out and accused?
It’s all a question of imagination. Our responsibility begins with the power to imagine. It’s just like Yeats said: In dreams begin responsibilities. Flip this around and you could say that where there’s no power to imagine, no responsibility can arise. Just like we see with Eichmann.
In dreams begin responsibilities. The words hit home.
think about my own responsibility. I can’t help it. My white T-shirt was soaked in fresh blood. I washed the blood away with these hands, so much blood the sink turned red. I imagine I’ll be held responsible for all that blood. I try to picture myself being tried in a court, my accusers doggedly trying to pin the blame on me, angrily pointing fingers and glaring at me. I insist that you can’t be held responsible for something you can’t remember. I don’t have any idea what really took place, I tell them. But they counter with this: “It doesn’t matter whose dream it started out as, you have the
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What I imagine is perhaps very important. For the entire world.
Beyond a certain point it’s hard to tell if it’s really a path or something that just vaguely resembles one.
Not just beautiful, though—the stars are like the trees in the forest, alive and breathing. And they’re watching me. What I’ve done up till now, what I’m going to do—they know it all. Nothing gets past their watchful eyes.
Eichmann hated the war itself—that element of uncertainty that screwed up his plans.
the forest is dark and deep, the towering trees forming a thick wall on both sides. Something of the forest is hiding there, in the darkness between the trees, like some 3-D painting of an animal, watching my every move. But the fear that made me shudder isn’t there anymore. I’ve made my own rules, and by following them I won’t get lost. At least I hope not.
Along with the pain there’s a feeling of closeness, like for once in my life the world’s treating me fairly.
Being pummeled by the rain so hard made me feel strangely purified, and I want to hold on to that sensation a while longer.
It’s like beasts that never tire, tracking you everywhere you go. They come out at you deep in the forest. They’re tough, relentless, merciless, untiring, and they never give up. You might control yourself now, and not masturbate, but they’ll get you in the end, as a wet dream.
You’re afraid of imagination. And even more afraid of dreams. Afraid of the responsibility that begins in dreams. But you have to sleep, and dreams are a part of sleep. When you’re awake you can suppress imagination. But you can’t suppress dreams.
Silence, I discover, is something you can actually hear.
“That’s right. The infamous cat-killer Johnnie Walker, at your service.”
what the fuck
I’m killing them to collect their souls, which I use to create a special kind of flute. And when I blow that flute it’ll let me collect even larger souls. Then I collect larger souls and make an even bigger flute. Perhaps in the end I’ll be able to make a flute so large it’ll rival the universe.
What you can do for me is kill me. Take my life, in other words.”
“Truthfully, I’m sick and tired of this life. I’ve lived a long, long time. I don’t even remember how old I am. And I don’t feel like living any longer.
Nobody respects what I’m doing, it doesn’t make anybody happy. But the whole thing’s all fixed already. I can’t just suddenly say I quit and stop what I’m doing. And taking my own life isn’t an option. That’s already been decided too. There’re all sorts of rules involved. If I want to die, I have to get somebody else to kill me. That’s where you come in. I want you to fear me, to hate me with a passion—and then terminate me. First you fear me. Then you hate me. And finally you kill me.”
