Kafka on the Shore

by Haruki Murakami

I’m free, I think. I shut my eyes and think hard and deep about how free I am, but I can’t really understand what it means. All I know is I’m totally alone. All alone in an unfamiliar place, like some solitary explorer who’s lost his compass and his map. Is this what it means to be free? I don’t know, and I give up thinking about it.

“The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory.”