Kafka on the Shore

by Haruki Murakami

No other forms of entertainment, except for watching the dynamic sunsets as the sun slipped below the horizon. I’d go down to the beach in the evening, plunk myself down, and while other people played ukuleles, I’d leisurely wait for the sun to set, wondering how today’s sunset would stack up against all the others I’d seen.

If you write it in kanji it might come out as 可·不可 (ka-fuka) meaning possible/impossible.

“Not that running away’s going to solve everything. I don’t want to rain on your parade or anything, but I wouldn’t count on escaping this place if I were you. No matter how far you run. Distance might not solve anything.”

Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.

My sister’s looking off to the side so half her face is in shadow and her smile is neatly cut in half. It’s like one of those Greek tragedy masks in a textbook that’s half one idea and half the opposite. Light and dark. Hope and despair. Laughter and sadness. Trust and loneliness.

One thing I do know, though. I don’t want to wander around some strange place with a huge backpack that screams out, Hey, everybody, check out the runaway!

All the students dress neatly, have nice straight teeth, and are boring as hell. Naturally I have zero friends. I’ve built a wall around me, never letting anybody inside and trying not to venture outside myself. Who could like somebody like that? They all keep an eye on me, from a distance. They might hate me, or even be afraid of me, but I’m just glad they didn’t bother me. Because I had tons of things to take care of, including spending a lot of my free time devouring books in the school library.

The facts and techniques or whatever they teach you in class isn’t going to be very useful in the real world, that’s for sure.

My eyes in the mirror are cold as a lizard’s, my expression fixed and unreadable. I can’t remember the last time I laughed or even showed a hint of a smile to other people. Even to myself. I’m not trying to imply I can keep up this silent, isolated facade all the time. Sometimes the wall I’ve erected around me comes crumbling down. It doesn’t happen very often, but sometimes, before I even realize what’s going on, there I am—naked and defenseless and totally confused. At times like that I always feel an omen calling out to me, like a dark, omnipresent pool of water.

The world is a huge space, but the space that will take you in—and it doesn’t have to be very big—is nowhere to be found. You seek a voice, but what do you get? Silence. You look for silence, but guess what? All you hear over and over and over is the voice of this omen. And sometimes this prophetic voice pushes a secret switch hidden deep inside your brain.

“‘In traveling, a companion, in life, compassion,’”

“that chance encounters are what keep us going.

I’m free, I remind myself. Like the clouds floating across the sky, I’m all by myself, totally free.

“In ancient times people weren’t just male or female, but one of three types: male/male, male/female, or female/female. In other words, each person was made out of the components of two people. Everyone was happy with this arrangement and never really gave it much thought. But then God took a knife and cut everybody in half, right down the middle. So after that the world was divided just into male and female, the upshot being that people spend their time running around trying to locate their missing other half.”

“Anyway, my point is that it’s really hard for people to live their lives alone.”

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.

Their minds just felt a bit blank, as you do when you first wake up in the morning. That was all. Each child gave the same exact response.

The thought hit me hard then that I had to learn a trade, so no matter where I went I could always find work.

Before long the borders of his consciousness fluttered around, just like the butterflies. Beyond these borders lay a dark abyss. Occasionally his consciousness would fly over the border and hover over that dizzying, black crevass. But Nakata wasn’t afraid of the darkness or how deep it was. And why should he be? That bottomless world of darkness, that weighty silence and chaos, was an old friend, a part of him already. Nakata understood this well. In that world there was no writing, no days of the week, no scary Governor, no opera, no BMWs. No scissors, no tall hats. On the other hand, there was also no delicious eel, no tasty bean-jam buns. Everything is there, but there are no parts. Since there are no parts, there’s no need to replace one thing with another. No need to remove anything, or add anything. You don’t have to think about difficult things, just let yourself soak it all in. For Nakata, nothing could be better. Occasionally he dozed off. Even when he slept, though, his senses, ever vigilant, kept watch over the vacant lot. If something happened, if somebody came, he could wake up and do what needed to be done. The sky was covered with a flat line of gray clouds, but at least it wasn’t going to rain. The cats all knew it. And so did Nakata.

Did it? “I don’t know. But if I get married someday I don’t think I’ll have any kids. I wouldn’t have any idea how to get along with them if I did.”

To tell the truth, though, I don’t think I deserve your kindness. I’m trying my best to be a much better person, but things aren’t going so well. The next time we meet I hope I’ll have my act together. Whether that will happen or not, I don’t know. Thanks for last night. It was wonderful.

Once I get there, something will work out. I don’t know why, but I just have a feeling it will. Fate seems to be taking me in some even stranger directions.

With my husband off to war soon after we married, we never had any children, so I’ve been all alone in the world. I wouldn’t say my life has been happy, but it has been a great blessing to have been able to teach for so long and have the chance to work with so many children over the years. I thank God for this opportunity. If it hadn’t been for teaching I don’t think I’d have been able to survive.

He had very pleasant features and always dressed well. He was a gentle boy and never butted in where he didn’t belong. Never once during class did he volunteer an answer, but when I called on him, he always gave the correct answer, and when I asked his opinion he’d give a logical reply. He caught on right away, no matter what the subject. Every class has a student like that, one who’ll study what he needs to without supervision, who you know will one day attend a top college and get an excellent job. A child who’s innately capable.

Every so often I felt a sense of resignation in him. Even when he did well on difficult assignments, he never seemed happy. He never struggled to succeed, never seemed to experience the pain of trial and error. He never sighed or cracked a smile. It was as if these were things he had to get through, so he just did them.

Adults constantly raise the bar on smart children, precisely because they’re able to handle it. The children get overwhelmed by the tasks in front of them and gradually lose the sort of openness and sense of accomplishment they innately have. When they’re treated like that, children start to crawl inside a shell and keep everything inside.

“But people need to cling to something,” Oshima says. “They have to. You’re doing the same, even though you don’t realize it. It’s like Goethe said: Everything’s a metaphor.”

‘Heavenly Tedious.’”

“I have no great explanation for it, but one thing I can say. 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. Just like you’re

can be a risky business, particularly in tunnels. Sports cars really should be red. Then they’d stand out. That’s why most Ferraris are red. But I happen to like green, even if it makes things more dangerous. Green’s the color of a forest. Red’s the color of blood.”

bored me silly. It’s only natural for someone your age. In time you’ll appreciate it. People soon get tired of things that aren’t boring, but not of what is boring. Go figure. For me, I might have the leisure to be bored, but not to grow tired of something. Most people can’t distinguish between the two.”

Being able to converse with cats was Nakata’s little secret. Only he and the cats knew about it. People would think he was crazy if he mentioned it, so he never did. Everybody knew he wasn’t very bright, but being dumb and being crazy were different matters altogether.

That’s what he meant by solitude comes in different varieties.

Mostly they’re books on philosophy, sociology, history, geography, natural sciences, economics—a huge number of subjects, a random selection of fields. Oshima said he’d hardly attended school at all, so this must have been how he got his education.

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.

She’d said, I don’t get it, you don’t have to tell me that! Why don’t you just go ahead and imagine what you want? You don’t need my permission. How can I know what’s in your head? But she got it wrong. What I imagine is perhaps very important. For the entire world.

Realizing all over again how important sunlight is to human beings, I appreciate each second of that precious light. The intense loneliness and helplessness I felt under those millions of stars has vanished.

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.

“I want to cut off Goma’s head, but you don’t want that to happen. Our two missions, our two interests, conflict. That happens a lot in the world. So I’ll tell you what—we’ll negotiate.

Hello, good-bye. Like flowers scattered in a storm, man’s life is one long farewell, as they say.”

Closing your eyes isn’t going to change anything. Nothing’s going to disappear just because you can’t see what’s going on. In fact, things will be even worse the next time you open your eyes. That’s the kind of world we live in, Mr. Nakata. Keep your eyes wide open. Only a coward closes his eyes. Closing your eyes and plugging up your ears won’t make time stand still.”

Having no music doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would. There’re lots of other sounds that take its place—the chirping of birds, the cries of all sorts of insects, the gurgle of the brook, the rustling of leaves. Rain falls, something scrambles across the cabin roof, and sometimes I hear indescribable sounds I can’t explain. I never knew the world was full of so many beautiful, natural sounds. I’ve ignored them my entire life, but not now.

But I know I’m just passing through and will have to leave before long. This place is too calm, too natural—too complete. I don’t deserve it. At least not yet.

“Speaking of contradictions,” Oshima suddenly says, “when I first met you I felt a kind of contradiction in you. You’re seeking something, but at the same time running away for all you’re worth.”

“From my own experience, when someone is trying very hard to get something, they don’t. And when they’re running away from something as hard as they can, it usually catches up with them. I’m generalizing, of course.” “If you generalize about me, then, what’s in my future? If I’m seeking and running at the same time.” “That’s a tough one,” Oshima says, and smiles. A moment passes before he goes on. “If I had to say anything it’d be this: Whatever it is you’re seeking won’t come in the form you’re expecting.”

There’s only one kind of happiness, but misfortune comes in all shapes and sizes. It’s like Tolstoy said. Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story.

“Kafka, in everybody’s life there’s a point of no return. And in a very few cases, a point where you can’t go forward anymore. And when we reach that point, all we can do is quietly accept the fact. That’s how we survive.”

But what I can’t stand are hollow people. When I’m with them I just can’t bear it, and wind up saying things I shouldn’t. With those women—I should’ve just let it slide, or else called Miss Saeki and let her handle it. She would have given them a smile and smoothed things over. But I just can’t do that. I say things I shouldn’t, do things I shouldn’t do. I can’t control myself. That’s one of my weak points. Do you know why that’s a weak point of mine?”