will have to make it hrough that violent, cal, symbolic storm. r how metaphysical c it might be, make no mistake about it: ll cut through flesh ousand razor blades. ple will bleed there, d you will bleed too. od. You’ll catch that lood in your hands, our own blood and the blood of others. rm is over you won’t ou made it through, managed to survive. ven be sure, in fact, storm is really over. certain. When you storm you won’t be son who walked in. is storm’s all about.
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Kafka on the Shore is a 2002 novel by Japanese author Haruki Murakami. John Updike described it as a “real page-turner, as well as an insistently metaphysical mind-bender”. Since its 2005 English language release (2006 PEN/Book–of–the–Month Club Translation Prize–winning translation by Philip Gabriel), the novel has received mostly positive reviews and critical acclaim, including a spot on The New York Times 10 Best Books of 2005 and the World Fantasy Award. Haruki Murakami (村上 春樹) Born: January 12, 1949 (age 64) Haruki Murakami is a best–selling Japanese writer. His works of fiction and non-fiction have garnered critical acclaim and numerous awards, including the Franz Kafka Prize, the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award and the Jerusalem Prize, among others. Murakami has also translated a number of English works to Japanese. His notable works include 1Q84, Kafka on the Shore, Norwegian Wood, and The Wind–Up Bird Chronicle. Murakami’s fiction, often criticized by Japan’s literary establishment, is often surrealistic and nihilistic, marked by a Kafkaesque rendition of themes of loneliness and alienation. He is considered an important figure in postmodern literature. Steven Poole of The Guardian praised Murakami as “among the world’s greatest living novelists” for his works and achievements.
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The Boy Named Crow ………………………………………………………….. p1
Chapter 17 ………………………………………………………………………… p19
Chapter 34 ………………………………………………………………………… p39
Chapter 1 ………………………………………………………………………….. p3
Chapter 18 ………………………………………………………………………… p20
Chapter 35 ………………………………………………………………………… p40
Chapter 2 ………………………………………………………………………….. p4
Chapter 19 ………………………………………………………………………… p21
Chapter 36 ………………………………………………………………………… p41
Chapter 3 ………………………………………………………………………….. p5
Chapter 20 ………………………………………………………………………… p22
Chapter 37 ………………………………………………………………………… p42
Chapter 4 ………………………………………………………………………….. p6
Chapter 21 …………………………………………………………………………. p23
Chapter 38 ………………………………………………………………………… p43
Chapter 5 ………………………………………………………………………….. p7
Chapter 22 …………………………………………………………………………. p24
Chapter 39 ………………………………………………………………………… p44
Chapter 6 ………………………………………………………………………….. p8
Chapter 23 …………………………………………………………………………. p25
Chapter 40 ………………………………………………………………………… p45
Chapter 7 ………………………………………………………………………….. p9
Chapter 24 ………………………………………………………………………… p29
Chapter 41 ………………………………………………………………………… p46
Chapter 8 ………………………………………………………………………….. p10
Chapter 25 ………………………………………………………………………… p30
Chapter 42 ………………………………………………………………………… p47
Chapter 9 ………………………………………………………………………….. p11
Chapter 26 ………………………………………………………………………… p31
Chapter 43 ………………………………………………………………………… p48
Chapter 10 ………………………………………………………………………… p12
Chapter 27 ………………………………………………………………………… p32
Chapter 44 ………………………………………………………………………… p49
Chapter 11 ………………………………………………………………………… p13
Chapter 28 ………………………………………………………………………… p33
Chapter 45 ………………………………………………………………………… p50
Chapter 12 ………………………………………………………………………… p14
Chapter 29 ………………………………………………………………………… p34
Chapter 46 ………………………………………………………………………… p51
Chapter 13 ………………………………………………………………………… p15
Chapter 30 ………………………………………………………………………… p35
The Boy Named Crow …………………………………………………………. p52
Chapter 14 ………………………………………………………………………… p16
Chapter 31 ………………………………………………………………………… p36
Chapter 47 ………………………………………………………………………… p53
Chapter 15 ………………………………………………………………………… p17
Chapter 32 ………………………………………………………………………… p37
Chapter 48 ………………………………………………………………………… p54
Chapter 16 ………………………………………………………………………… p18
Chapter 33 ………………………………………………………………………… p38
Chapter 49 ………………………………………………………………………… p55
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Sometimes fate is like a small And you really will have to make it sandstorm that keeps changing through that violent, directions. You change direction metaphysical, symbolic storm. but the sandstorm chases you. No matter how metaphysical You turn again, but the storm or symbolic it might be, make adjusts. Over and over you play this no mistake about it: out, like some ominous dance with it will cut through flesh death just before dawn. like a thousand razor blades. Why? Because this storm isn’t People will bleed there, something that blew in from far and you will bleed too. away, something that has Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that nothing to do with you. blood in your hands, This storm is you. Something your own blood and inside of you. So all you can do the blood of others. is give in to it, step right inside And once the storm is over you won’t the storm, closing your eyes and remember how you made it through, plugging up your ears so the sand how you managed to survive. doesn’t get in, and walk through it, You won’t even be sure, in fact, step by step. There’s no sun there, whether the storm is really over. no moon, no direction, no sense But one thing is certain. When you of time. Just fine white sand come out of the storm you won’t be swirling up into the sky like the same person who walked in. pulverized bones. That’s the kind ofThat’s what this storm’s all about.
The Boy Named Crow, p5–6 “Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions,” Crow says. 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 you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others. 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. So I’ll just give the main point. On my fifteenth birthday I’ll run away from home, journey to a faroff town, and live in a corner of a small library.
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Chapter 1, p10–11 At times like that I always feel an omen calling out to me, like a dark, omnipresent pool of water.
It sounds a little like a fairy tale. But it’s no fairy tale, believe me. No matter what sort of spin you put on it.
A dark, omnipresent pool of water. It was probably always there, hidden away somewhere. But when the time comes it silently rushes out, chilling every cell in your body. You drown in that cruel flood, gasping for breath. You cling to a vent near the ceiling, struggling, but the air you manage to breathe is dry and burns your throat. Water and thirst, cold and heat--these supposedly opposite elements combine to assault you. 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. Your heart is like a great river after a long spell of rain, spilling over its banks. All signposts that once stood on the ground are gone, inundated and carried away by that rush of water. And still the rain beats down on the surface of the river. Every time you see a flood like that on the news you tell yourself: That’s it. That’s my heart. A mechanism buried inside of you.
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Chapter 2, p16, p18
Chapter 3, p23
—It was soon after you observed the airplane– like object that you went into the woods, correct?
“What does it matter what it’s called?” she continues. “You’ve got your restrooms and your food. Your fluorescent lights and your plastic chairs. Crappy coffee. Strawberry—jam sandwiches. It’s all pointless— assuming you try to find a point to it. We’re coming from somewhere, heading somewhere else. That’s all you need to know, right?” I nod. And nod. And nod.
—Did you notice anything unusual at the scene? Any strange smell or sound—or a light?
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Chapter 4, p28, p30 —You said the unconscious children’s eyes moved back and forth, but did you notice any other unusual symptoms or reactions? For instance, the size of their pupils, the color of the whites of their eyes, the frequency of their blinking? —Other than this boy, Nakata, none of the other children showed any symptoms later on?
Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me music by Duke Ellington lyrics by Bob Russell Edward Kennedy Ellington (1899–1974) “Duke” Ellington was an American composer, pianist and bandleader of jazz orchestras. His career spanned over 50 years, leading his orchestra from 1923 until death. Though widely considered to have been a pivotal figure in the history of jazz, Ellington himself embraced the phrase “beyond category” as a “liberating principle,” and referred his music to the more general category of “American Music,” rather than to a musical genre such as “jazz.” Born in Washington, D.C., he was based in New York City from the mid-1920s onwards, and gained a national profile through his orchestra’s appearances at the Cotton Club. In the 1930s they toured in Europe.
Do nothing till you hear from me Pay no attention to what’s said Why people tear the seams of anyone’s dreams Is over my head Do nothing till you hear from me At least consider our romance If you should take the words of others you’ve heard I haven’t a chance True, I’ve been seen with someone new But does that mean that I’ve been untrue? When we’re apart The words in my heart Reveal how I feel about you Some kiss may cloud my memories And other arms may hold a thrill But please, do nothing till you hear it from me And you never will Some kiss may cloud my memories And other arms may hold a thrill But please, do nothing till you hear it from me And you never will
Chapter 5, p33, p34, p39–40 “That things in life are fated by our previous lives. That even in the smallest events there’s no such thing as coincidence.” Once I’d gone through all the children’s books, I went on to the general stacks and books for adults. I might not always get much out of them, but I forged on to the very last page. When I got tired of reading I’d go into one of those listening booths with headphones and enjoy some music. I had no idea about music so I just went down the row of CDs they had there, giving them all a listen. That’s how I got to know about Duke Ellington, the Beatles, and Led Zeppelin. “According to Aristophanes in Plato’s Symposium, in the ancient world of myth there were three types of people,” Oshima says. “Have you heard about this?” “No.” “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.” “Why did God do that?” “Divide people into two? You got me. God works in mysterious ways. There’s that whole wrath–of–God thing, all that excessive idealism and so on. My guess is it was punishment for something. Like in the Bible. Adam and Eve and the Fall and so forth.” “Original sin,” I say.
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Chapter 6, p50 “That’s happened to me a few times. Course that was a long time ago, when I was much younger,” Otsuka said, eyes narrowed as he searched his memory. “Once you’re lost, you panic. You’re in total despair, not knowing what to do. I hate it when that happens. Sex can be a real pain that way, course when you get in the mood all you can think about is what’s right under your nose— that’s sex, all right. “That’s exactly right. Nakata feels the same way. There are all kinds of people in the world, and all kinds of cats.”
I guess I shoulda known By the way you parked your car sideways That it wouldn't last See you're the kinda person That believes in makin' out once Love 'em and leave 'em fast I guess I must be dumb Cause you had a pocket full of horses Trojan and some of them used But it was Saturday night I guess that makes it all right And you say what have I got to lose? And honey I say Little red corvette Baby you're much to fast Little red corvette You need a love that's gonna last I guess I shoulda closed my eyes When you drove me to the place Where your horses run free Cause I felt a little I’ll When I saw all the pictures Of the jockeys that were there before me Believe it or not I started to worry I wondered if I had enough class But it was Saturday night I guess that makes it all right And you say, “Baby, have you got enough gas?” Oh yeah Little red corvette Baby you’re much to fast, yes you are Little red corvette You need to find a love that’s gonna last
A body like yours (a body like yours) Oughta be in jail (oughta be in jail) Cause it's on the verge of bein obscene (Cause it's on the verge of bein obscene) Move over baby (move over baby) Gimme the keys (gimme the keys) I'm gonna try to tame your little red love machine (I'm gonna try to tame your little red love machine) Little red corvette Baby you're much to fast Little red corvette You need to find a love that's gonna last Little red corvette Honey you got to slow down (got to slow down) Little red corvette Cause if you don’t you gonna run your Little red corvette right in the ground (Little red corvette) Right down to the ground (honey you got to slow down) You, you, you got to slow down (little red corvette) You’re movin much to fast (to fast) You need to find a love that’s gonna last
Chapter 7, p55–56, p60 I start on my circuit training. With Prince blasting away on my Walkman, I put in a good hour of training, making my usual round of the seven machines. I thought for sure a gym in such a small town would be full of dated machines, but these are the latest models, with the metallic smell of brand–new steel. The first round I do with light weights, then increase the weight for the second circuit. I know exactly how much weight and how many reps work for me. Pretty soon I start to sweat and stop every once in a while to take a swig from the bottle and a bite out of a lemon I bought on the way over. Back in my room I jot down what I did that day in my diary, listen to Radiohead on my Walkman, read a little, and then it’s lights out at eleven. Sometimes I masturbate before going to sleep. I think about the girl at the front desk, putting any thoughts of her potentially being my sister out of my head, for the time being. I hardly watch any TV or read any newspapers.
Girl, you got an ass like I never seen And the ride... I say the ride is so smooth You must be a limousine Baby you’re much 2 fast Little red corvette U need a love, u need a love that’s That’s gonna last (Little red corvette) U got 2 slow down (u got 2 slow down) Little red corvette Cuz if u don’t, cuz if u don’t, U gonna run your body right into the ground (right into the ground) Right into the ground (right into the ground) Right into the ground (right into the ground) Little red corvette
Red Corvette music & lyrics by Prince Rogers Nelson Prince Rogers Nelson Born: June 7, 1958 (age 55) Prince Rogers Nelson, known by his mononym Prince, is an American singer-songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, and actor. He has produced ten platinum albums and thirty Top 40 singles during his career. He has written several hundred songs and produces and records his own music for his own music label. In addition, he has promoted the careers of Sheila E., Carmen Electra, the Time and Vanity 6, and his songs have been recorded by these artists and others, including Chaka Khan, The Bangles, Sinéad O’Connor, and Kim Basinger. 9
Chapter 8, p68
Chapter 9, p75
—Did anything out of the ordinary take place that day?
“Hey, would you tell me the whole story, from the beginning?” she says, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “I don’t think I’m going to get much more sleep tonight, so I might as well hear it all.” I explain everything to her, from the time I left home. I leave out the omen part, though. That, I know, I can’t tell just anyone.
Nothing worth mentioning. It was a day like any other. At ten a. m. the nurse came to draw a blood sample. Right after that he choked a bit, and some of the blood spilled on the sheets. Not much, and they changed the sheets right away. That was about the only thing different that day. The boy woke up about a half hour after that. Out of the blue he sat up in bed, stretched, and looked around the room. He had regained consciousness, and medically he was perfectly fine. Soon, though, we realized he’d lost his entire memory. He couldn’t even remember his own name. The place he lived in, his school, his parents’ faces—it was all gone. He couldn’t read, and wasn’t even aware this was Japan or the Earth. He couldn’t even fathom the concept of Japan or the Earth. He’d returned to this world with his mind wiped clean. The proverbial blank slate.
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Chapter 10, p83, p85
Chapter 11, p92, p95
“Mr. Nakata, this world is a terribly violent place. And nobody can escape the violence. Please keep that in mind. You can’t be too cautious. The same holds true for cats and human beings.”
“Yeah. I’ve been trying to keep from imagining that, but I can’t.” “Really?” “It’s like a TV you can’t turn off.” She laughs. “I don’t get it. You didn’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?” “I can’t help it. Imagining something’s very important, so I thought I’d better tell you. It has nothing to do with whether you know or not.”
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.
Fate seems to be taking me in some even stranger directions.
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.
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Chapter 12, p104
Chapter 13, p110, p112, p116
I’d accepted my husband’s death as inevitable, as something fated to be. So news of his death merely confirmed what I already knew. The whole experience on the hill was beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. I feel like I left a part of my soul in those woods.
He pushes the CD’s play button and some classical piano music starts. I listen for a while, figuring out the music. I know it’s not Beethoven, and not Schumann. Probably somebody who came in between. “Schubert?” I ask. “Good guess,” he replies. His hands at ten–and– two on the steering wheel, he glances over at me. “Do you like Schubert?” “Generally I’d have to say Brendel and Ashkenazy give the best performances, though they don’t do anything for me emotionally. Schubert’s music challenges and shatters the ways of the world. That’s the essence of Romanticism, and Schubert’s music is the epitome of the Romantic.” “It’s not some romantic getaway, that’s for sure. But for simple living, it’ll do. One thing I’ve got to warn you about--don’t go very far into the woods. The forest is really dense, and there’s not a good path through it. Always keep the cabin in sight. It’s easy to get lost if you go any farther, and it’s hard to find your way back. I had a terrible experience there once. I was only a couple hundred yards from here but spent half the day going in circles. 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.”
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Chapter 14, p128 “I’ve prepared a couple of theories about you,” Johnnie Walker said. “And of course several pieces of counterevidence. It’s like a game, a mental game I play. But every game needs a winner and a loser. In this case, winning and losing involves determining which theory is correct and which theories aren’t. But I don’t imagine you understand what I’m talking about.”
It’s like a game, a mental game I play. But every game needs a winner and a loser. In this case, winning and losing involves determining which theory is correct and which theories aren’t. But I don’t imagine you understand what I’m talking about.
Chapter 15, p131, p132, p138 I pick out a book on the trial of Adolf Eichmann. I have a vague notion of him as a Nazi war criminal, but no special interest in the guy. The book just happens to catch my eye, is all. I start to read and learn how this totally practical lieutenant colonel in the SS, with his metal–frame glasses and thinning hair, was, soon after the war started, assigned by Nazi headquarters to design a “final solution” for the Jews–extermination, that is–and how he investigated the best ways of actually carrying this out. Apparently it barely crossed his mind to question the morality of what he was doing. All he cared about was how best, in the shortest period of time and for the lowest possible cost, to dispose of the Jews. And we’re talking about eleven million Jews he figured needed to be eliminated in Europe. His handwriting’s pretty easy to spot: 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.
Responsibilities (1914) by Yeats In dreams begins responsibilities. W. B. Yeats (1865–1939) William Butler Yeats was an Irish poet and one of the foremost figures of 20th century literature. A pillar of both the Irish and British literary establishments, in his later years he served as an Irish Senator for two terms. Yeats was a driving force behind the Irish Literary Revival and, along with Lady Gregory, Edward Martyn, and others, founded the Abbey Theatre, where he served as its chief during its early years. In 1923 he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature as the first Irishman so honoured for what the Nobel Committee described as “inspired poetry, which in a highly artistic form gives expression to the spirit of a whole nation.” Yeats is generally considered one of the few writers who completed their greatest works after being awarded the Nobel Prize; such works include The Tower (1928) and The Winding Stair and Other Poems (1929). Yeats was a very good friend of American expatriate poet and Bollingen Prize laureate Ezra Pound. Yeats wrote the introduction for Gitanjali, which was about to be published by the India Society.
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.
But that calm won’t last long, you know. 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 might dream about raping your sister, your mother. It’s not something you can control. It’s a power beyond you—and all you can do is accept it. 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 lie down in bed and listen to Prince on my headphones, concentrating on this strangely unceasing music. The batteries run out in the middle of “Little Red Corvette,” the music disappearing like it’s been swallowed up by quicksand. I yank off my headphones and listen. Silence, I discover, is something you can actually hear.
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Chapter 16, p142, p145, p148
Chapter 17, p153
“When a war starts people are forced to become soldiers. They carry guns and go to the front lines and have to kill soldiers on the other side. As many as they possibly can. Nobody cares whether you like killing other people or not. It’s just something you have to do. Otherwise you’re the one who gets killed.” Johnnie Walker pointed his index finger at Nakata’s chest. “Bang!” he said. “Human history in a nutshell.”
“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.”
No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red. A line from Macbeth. “A person’s not being himself anymore,” he repeated. “You’re no longer yourself. That’s the ticket, Mr. Nakata. Wonderful! The most important thing of all. O, full of scorpions is my mind! Macbeth again.”
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Chapter 18, p166
Chapter 19, p181–182
He collects cats, cuts off their heads with a saw, and eats their hearts. He’s collecting the cats’ souls to make a special kind of flute. And then he’s going to use that flute to collect people’s souls.
“But there’s one thing I want you to remember, Kafka. Those are exactly the kind of people who murdered Miss Saeki’s childhood sweetheart. Narrow minds devoid of imagination. Intolerance, theories cut off from reality, empty terminology, usurped ideals, inflexible systems. Those are the things that really frighten me. What I absolutely fear and loathe. Of course it’s important to know what’s right and what’s wrong. Individual errors in judgment can usually be corrected. As long as you have the courage to admit mistakes, things can be turned around. But intolerant, narrow minds with no imagination are like parasites that transform the host, change form, and continue to thrive. They’re a lost cause, and I don’t want anyone like that coming in here.”
narrow minds devoid of imagination intolerance lity a e r m o fr ff o t u c s ie r o e th usurped ideals empty terminology inf lexible systems
Those are the things that really frighten me. What I absolutely fear and loathe.
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Chapter 20, p189
Chapter 21, p199
“That’s fine. Look—what I’m getting at is no matter who or what you’re dealing with, people build up meaning between themselves and the things around them. The important thing is whether this comes about naturally or not. Being bright has nothing to do with it. What matters is that you see things with your own eyes.”
“Because there’s irony involved.” “Irony?” Oshima gazes deep into my eyes. “Listen, Kafka. What you’re experiencing now is the motif of many Greek tragedies. Man doesn’t choose fate. Fate chooses man. That’s the basic worldview of Greek drama. And the sense of tragedy—according to Aristotle—comes, ironically enough, not from the protagonist’s weak points but from his good qualities. Do you know what I’m getting at? People are drawn deeper into tragedy not by their defects but by their virtues. Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex being a great example. Oedipus is drawn into tragedy not because of laziness or stupidity, but because of his courage and honesty. So an inevitable irony results.”
People are drawn deeper into tragedy tragedy not by their defects but by their virtues virtues
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Chapter 22, p212 It was about this time that he discovered he could speak with cats. His grandparents had a few cats around the house, and Nakata became good friends with them. At first he was able to speak only a few words, but he knuckled down like he was trying to master a foreign language and before long was able to carry on extended conversations. Whenever he was free he liked to sit on the porch and talk with the cats. For their part, the cats taught him a lot about nature and the world around him. Actually almost all the basic knowledge he had about the world and how it worked he learned from his feline friends.
You must remember this A kiss is still a kiss A sigh is still (just) a sigh The fundamental things apply As time goes by And when two lovers woo They still say: I love you On that you can rely No matter what the future brings As time goes by
As Time Goes By sung by Dooley Wilson accompanied by Elliot Carpenter Casablanca Casablanca is a 1942 American romantic drama film directed by Michael Curtiz and based on Murray Burnett and Joan Alison’s un-produced stage play Everybody Comes to Rick’s. The film stars Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, and Paul Henreid; and features Claude Rains, Conrad Veidt, Sydney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre, and Dooley Wilson. Set during World War II, it focuses on a man torn between, in the words of one character, “love and virtue”. He must choose between his love for a woman and helping her Czech Resistance leader husband escape the Vichy-controlled Moroccan city of Casablanca to continue his fight against the Nazis.
Moonlight and love songs - never out of date Hearts full of passion - jealousy and hate Woman needs man - and man must have his mate That no one can deny It’s still the same old story A fight for love and glory A case of do or die The world will always welcome lovers As time goes by
Chapter 23, p220–221, p226, In the middle of the room, where time seems to have drifted to a halt, we find an old Sansui stereo. Covered in a thin layer of white dust, the stereo itself looks in good shape, though it must be over twenty-five years since this was up-to-date audio equipment. The whole set consists of a receiver, amp, turntable, and bookshelf speakers. We also find a collection of old LPs, mostly sixties pop music--Beatles, Stones, Beach Boys, Simon and Garfunkel, Stevie Wonder. About thirty albums, all told. I take some out of their jackets. Whoever listened to these took good care of them, because there’s no trace of mold and not a scratch anywhere. We lug the stereo and records to my room. We dust it off, plug it in, connect up the player and amp, and hit the switch. The little green light on the amp comes on and the turntable begins to revolve. I check the cartridge and find it still has a decent needle, then take out the red vinyl record of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” and put it on the turntable. The familiar guitar intro starts to play. The sound’s much cleaner than I expected. Oshima raises a finger, like a teacher warning a pupil. “One thing, though. Make sure you never play it when Miss Saeki’s here. No matter what. Understood?” I nod again. “Like in Casablanca,” he says, and hums the opening bars of “As Time Goes By.” “Just don’t play that one song, okay?” “Around your mountain cabin—that’s real darkness.” “Absolutely,” Oshima says. “Real darkness still exists there. Sometimes I go there just to experience it.” “What triggers people to become living spirits? Is it always something negative?” “I’m no expert, but as far as I know, yes, those living spirits all spring up out of negative emotions. Most of the extreme feelings people have tend to be at once very individual and very negative. And these living spirits arise through a kind of spontaneous generation. Sad to say, there aren’t any cases of a living spirit emerging to fulfill some logical premise or bring about world peace.” “What about because of love?”
25
Chapter 23, p227–228 Once Oshima leaves I go back to my room, switch the stereo to 45 rpm, lower the needle, and listen to “Kafka on the Shore,” following the lyrics on the jacket.
You sit at the edge of the world, I am in a crater that’s no more. Words without letters Standing in the shadow of the door. The moon shines down on a sleeping lizard, Little fish rain down from the sky. Outside the window there are soldiers, steeling themselves to die. Kafka sits in a chair by the shore, Thinking of the pendulum that moves the world, it seems. When your heart is closed, The shadow of the unmoving Sphinx, Becomes a knife that pierces your dreams. The drowning girl’s fingers Search for the entrance stone, and more. Lifting the hem of her azure dress, She gazes— at Kafka on the shore. 27
Chapter 24, p236–237
Chapter 25,p249, p251–252
“Mr. Hoshino, your bones are out of line a bit.” “Not surprising, what with the out-of-line kind of life I’ve led,” Hoshino replied, and yawned. “It’s going to cause all sorts of problems if you don’t do something about it.”
“When I was fifteen,” Miss Saeki says with a smile, “all I wanted was to go off to some other world, a place beyond anybody’s reach. A place beyond the flow of time.” “But there’s no place like that in this world.” “Exactly. Which is why I’m living here, in this world where things are continually damaged, where the heart is fickle, where time flows past without a break.” As if hinting at the flow of time, she’s silent for a while. “But you know,” she goes on, “when I was fifteen, I thought there had to be a place like that in the world. I was sure that somewhere I’d run across the entrance that would take me to that other world.”
Happiness is a warm gun music by the Beatles lyrics by Lennon–McCartney The Beatles The Beatles were an English rock band that formed in Liverpool, in 1960. Their best–known lineup, consisting of John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr, became considered by many as the greatest and most influential act of the rock era. Rooted in skiffle and 1950s rock and roll, the Beatles later utilised several genres, ranging from pop ballads to psychedelic rock, often incorporating classical elements in innovative ways. In the early 1960s, their enormous popularity first emerged as “Beatlemania”, but as their songwriting grew in sophistication, they came to be perceived by fans and cultural observers as an embodiment of the ideals shared by the era’s sociocultural revolutions.
She's not a girl who misses much Do do do do do do, oh, yeah She's well acquainted With the touch of the velvet hand Like a lizard on a window pane The man in the crowd with the Multicolored mirrors on his hobnail boots Lying with his eyes While his hands are busy working overtime A soap impression of his wife Which he ate and donated to the National Trust I need a fix cause I'm going down Down to the bits that I left uptown I need a fix cause I'm going down Mother Superior jump the gun Mother Superior jump the gun Mother Superior jump the gun Mother Superior jump the gun Mother Superior jump the gun Mother Superior jump the gun Happiness is a warm gun (Bang bang, shoot shoot) Happiness is a warm gun mama (Bang bang, shoot shoot) When I hold you in my arms (Oh yeah) And I feel my finger on your trigger (Ooo, oh yeah) I know nobody can do me no harm (Ooo, oh yeah) Because happiness is a warm gun mama (Bang bang, shoot shoot) Happiness is a warm gun, yes it is (Bang bang, shoot shoot) Happiness is a warm, yes it is, gun (Happiness, bang bang, shoot shoot) Well, don't you know that happiness is a warm gun mama (Happiness is a warm gun yeah)
I go back to my room, boil water in the electric kettle, and make some tea. I take out the old records we found in the storage room and put them on the turntable one after another. Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde, the Beatles’ “White Album,” Otis Redding’s Dock of the Bay, Stan Getz’s Getz/Gilberto—all hit albums from the late sixties. That young boy—with Miss Saeki right beside him—must’ve done what I was doing, putting the records on the turntable, lowering the needle, listening to the music coming out of these speakers. The music felt like it was taking me and the whole room off to some different time, a world before I was even born. As I enjoy the music, I review the conversation we’d had that afternoon, trying to capture our exact words. “When I was fifteen, I thought there had to be a place like that in the world. I was sure that somewhere I’d run across the entrance that would take me to that other world.”
29
Chapter 26, p254
Chapter 27, p266
“Nakata was dead for three weeks once.” “No kidding,” Hoshino said. Still facedown, he took a gulp of tea and munched on some crunchy snacks he’d picked up at a convenience store. “So you really were dead?” “I was.” “Where were you all that time?” “Nakata doesn’t remember. It felt like I was somewhere far away, doing something else. But my head was floating and I can’t remember anything. Then I came back to this world and found out I was dumb. I couldn’t read or write anymore.” “You must’ve left your ability to read and write over on the other side.” “Maybe so.”
Oshima sits down on the bed, crosses his legs, and brushes his hair off his forehead. He’s wearing navy blue chinos, a black polo shirt, and white Adidas. “Seems to me you have a lot of issues you’ve got to deal with.” A lot of issues. I look up. “Don’t you have any?” Oshima holds his hands in the air. “Not all that many. But there is one thing. For me, inside this physical body—this defective container—the most important job is surviving from one day to the next. It could be simple, or very hard. It all depends on how you look at it. Either way, even if things go well, that’s not some great achievement. Nobody’s going to give me a standing ovation or anything.”
31
Chapter 28, p274
Chapter 29, p281
“At the same time that ‘I’ am the content of a relation, ‘I’ am also that which does the relating.” “Hmm...” “Hegel believed that a person is not merely conscious of self and object as separate entities, but through the projection of the self via the mediation of the object is volitionally able to gain a deeper understanding of the self. All of which constitutes self–consciousness.” “I don’t know what the heck you’re talking about.” “Well, think of what I’m doing to you right now. For me I’m the self, and you’re the object. For you, of course, it’s the exact opposite—you’re the self to you and I’m the object. And by exchanging self and object, we can project ourselves onto the other and gain self–consciousness. Volitionally.”
Where does your responsibility begin here? Wiping away the nebula from your sight, you struggle to find where you really are. You’re trying to find the direction of the flow, struggling to hold on to the axis of time. But you can’t locate the borderline separating dream and reality. Or even the boundary between what’s real and what’s possible. All you’re sure of is that you’re in a delicate position. Delicate—and dangerous. You’re pulled along, a part of it, unable to pin down the principles of prophecy, or of logic. Like when a river overflows, washing over a town, all road signs have sunk beneath the waves. And all you can see are the anonymous roofs of the sunken houses.
33
Chapter 30, p287–288
Chapter 31, p291, p294
“The stone itself is meaningless. The situation calls for something, and at this point in time it just happens to be this stone. Anton Chekhov put it best when he said, ‘If a pistol appears in a story, eventually it’s got to be fired.’ Do you know what he means?” “Nope.” Colonel Sanders sighed. “I didn’t think so, but I had to ask. It’s the polite thing to do.” “Much obliged.” “What Chekhov was getting at is this: necessity is an independent concept. It has a different structure from logic, morals, or meaning. Its function lies entirely in the role it plays. What doesn’t play a role shouldn’t exist. What necessity requires does need to exist. That’s what you call dramaturgy. Logic, morals, or meaning don’t have anything to do with it. It’s all a question of relationality. Chekhov understood dramaturgy very well.”
“Incredible things happen in life,” she says. “You mean I might go back to where I started?” Miss Saeki looks up, surprised, and after a moment’s hesitation lays her hand on mine. “At any rate, you—and your theory—are throwing a stone at a target that’s very far away. Do you understand that?” I nod. “I know. But metaphors can reduce the distance.” “We’re not metaphors.” “I know,” I say. “But metaphors help eliminate what separates you and me.”
If a pistol appears in a story, fired fired fired fired fired fired eventually it’s got to be
35
Chapter 32, p306
Chapter 33, p315–316, p317
“It’s not just that I’m dumb. Nakata’s empty inside. I finally understand that. Nakata’s like a library without a single book. It wasn’t always like that. I used to have books inside me. For a long time I couldn’t remember, but now I can. I used to be normal, just like everybody else. But something happened and I ended up like a container with nothing inside.” “Yeah, but if you look at it like that we’re all pretty much empty, don’t you think? You eat, take a dump, do your crummy job for your lousy pay, and get laid occasionally, if you’re lucky. What else is there? Still, you know, interesting things do happen in life—like with us now. I’m not sure why. My grandpa used to say that things never work out like you think they will, but that’s what makes life interesting, and that makes sense. If the Chunichi Dragons won every single game, who’d ever watch baseball?”
“That backpack’s like your symbol of freedom,” he comments. “Guess so,” I say. “Having an object that symbolizes freedom might make a person happier than actually getting the freedom it represents.” “Sometimes,” I say. “Sometimes,” he repeats. “You know, if they had a contest for the world’s shortest replies, you’d win hands down.” “Perhaps.” “Perhaps,” Oshima says, as if fed up. “Perhaps most people in the world aren’t trying to be free, Kafka. They just think they are. It’s all an illusion. If they really were set free, most people would be in a real bind. You’d better remember that. People actually prefer not being free.” “Including you?” “Yeah. I prefer being unfree, too. Up to a point. Jean-Jacques Rousseau defined civilization as when people build fences. A very perceptive observation. And it’s true—all civilization is the product of a fenced—in lack of freedom. The Australian Aborigines are the exception, though. They managed to maintain a fenceless civilization until the seventeenth century. They’re dyed–in–he-wool free. They go where they want, when they want, doing what they want. Their lives are a literal journey. Walkabout is a perfect metaphor for their lives. When the English came and built fences to pen in their cattle, the Aborigines couldn’t fathom it. And, ignorant to the end of the principle at work, they were classified as dangerous and antisocial and were driven away, to the outback. So I want you to be careful. The people who build high, strong fences are the ones who survive the best. You deny that reality only at the risk of being driven into the wilderness yourself.” “The strength I’m looking for isn’t the kind where you win or lose. I’m not after a wall that’ll repel power coming from outside. What I want is the kind of strength to be able to absorb that outside power, to stand up to it. The strength to quietly endure things— unfairness, misfortune, sadness, mistakes, misunderstandings.”
37
Chapter 34, p326
Chapter 35, p336
“Hey,” he called out to the owner. “What was that music called again? I forget.” “Beethoven’s Archduke Trio.” “March Duke?” “Arch. Archduke. Beethoven dedicated it to the Austrian archduke Rudolph. It’s not the official name, more like the piece’s nickname. Rudolph was the son of Emperor Leopold the Second. He was a very skilled musician, who studied piano and music theory with Beethoven starting when he was sixteen. He looked up to Beethoven. Archduke Rudolph didn’t make a name for himself as either a pianist or a composer, but sort of stood in the shadows lending a helping hand to Beethoven, who didn’t know much about getting ahead in the world. If it hadn’t been for him, Beethoven would have had a much tougher time.” “Those kind of people are necessary in life, huh?” “Absolutely.” “The world would be a real mess if everybody was a genius. Somebody’s got to keep watch, take care of business.”
“There are a lot of things that aren’t your fault. Or mine, either. Not the fault of prophecies, or curses, or DNA, or absurdity. Not the fault of Structuralism or the Third Industrial Revolution. We all die and disappear, but that’s because the mechanism of the world itself is built on destruction and loss. Our lives are just shadows of that guiding principle. Say the wind blows. It can be a strong, violent wind or a gentle breeze. But eventually every kind of wind dies out and disappears. Wind doesn’t have form. It’s just a movement of air. You should listen carefully, and then you’ll understand the metaphor.”
Archduke Trio by Beethoven Ludwig van Beethoven (1770–1827) Beethoven was a German composer and pianist. A crucial figure in the transition between the Classical and Romantic eras in Western art music, he remains one of the most famous and influential of all composers. His best known compositions include 9 symphonies, 5 concertos for piano, 32 piano sonatas, and 16 string quartets. He also composed other chamber music, choral works (including the celebrated Missa Solemnis), and songs. 39
Chapter 36, p338
Chapter 37, p352
“Yeah, I get it,” Hoshino said. “Things that are open have to be shut. Things you have, you gotta return the way they were. All right already! Anyhow, I’ve decided not to think about things so much. I’ll go along with whatever you want, no matter how crazy it sounds. I had a kind of revelation last night. Taking crazy things seriously is—a serious waste of time.”
“There’s another world that parallels our own, and to a certain degree you’re able to step into that other world and come back safely. As long as you’re careful. But go past a certain point and you’ll lose the path out. It’s a labyrinth. Do you know where the idea of a labyrinth first came from?” I shake my head. “It was the ancient Mesopotamians. They pulled out animal intestines—sometimes human intestines, I expect—and used the shape to predict the future. They admired the complex shape of intestines. So the prototype for labyrinths is, in a word, guts. Which means that the principle for the labyrinth is inside you. And that correlates to the labyrinth outside.”
41
Chapter 38, p358–359 “A deaf composer’s like a cook who’s lost his sense of taste. A frog that’s lost its webbed feet. A truck driver with his license revoked. That would throw anybody for a loop, don’t you think? But Beethoven didn’t let it get to him. Sure, he must have been a little depressed at first, but he didn’t let misfortune get him down. It was like, Problem? What problem? He composed more than ever and came up with better music than anything he’d ever written. I really admire the guy. Like this Archduke Trio—he was nearly deaf when he wrote it, can you believe it? What I’m trying to say is, it must be tough on you not being able to read, but it’s not the end of the world. You might not be able to read, but there are things only you can do. That’s what you gotta focus on—your strengths. Like being able to talk with the stone.”
Raindrops on roses and Whiskers on kittens Bright copper kettles and Warm woolen mittens Brown paper packages Tied up with strings These are a few of My favorite things
Girls in white dresses With blue satin sashes Snowflakes that stay on My nose and eyelashes Silver white winters That melt into Springs These are a few of My favorite things
Bright copper kettles and Warm woolen mittens Brown paper packages Tied up with strings These are a few of My favorite things
Snowflakes that stay on My nose and eyelashes Silver white winters That melt into Springs These are a few of My favorite things
Cream colored ponies and Crisp apple strudels Door bells and sleigh bells And schnitzel with noodles Wild geese that fly with The moon on their wings These are a few of My favorite things
When the dog bites When the bee stings When I’m feeling sad I simply remember My favorite things And then I don’t feel so bad.
Cream colored ponies and Crisp apple strudels Door bells and sleigh bells And schnitzel with noodles Wild geese that fly with The moon on their wings These are a few of My favorite things
When the dog bites When the bee stings When I’m feeling sad I simply remember My favorite things And then I don’t feel so bad.
Cream colored ponies and Crisp apple strudels Door bells and sleigh bells And schnitzel with noodles Wild geese that fly with The moon on their wings These are a few of My favorite things
Raindrops on roses and Whiskers on kittens Bright copper kettles and Warm woolen mittens Brown paper packages Tied up with strings These are a few of My favorite things
Girls in white dresses With blue satin sashes Snowflakes that stay on My nose and eyelashes Silver white winters That melt into Springs These are a few of My favorite things
Raindrops on roses and Whiskers on kittens Bright copper kettles and Warm woolen mittens Brown paper packages Tied up with strings These are a few of My favorite things
Girls in white dresses With blue satin sashes Snowflakes that stay on My nose and eyelashes Silver white winters That melt into Springs These are a few of My favorite things
When the dog bites When the bee stings When I'm feeling sad I simply remember My favorite things And then I don't feel so bad.
Cream colored ponies and Crisp apple strudels Door bells and sleigh bells And schnitzel with noodles Wild geese that fly with The moon on their wings These are a few of My favorite things
When the dog bites When the bee stings When I’m feeling sad I simply remember My favorite things And then I don’t feel so bad.
Cream colored ponies and Crisp apple strudels Door bells and sleigh bells And schnitzel with noodles Wild geese that fly with The moon on their wings These are a few of My favorite things
When the dog bites When the bee stings When I’m feeling sad I simply remember My favorite things And then I don’t feel so bad.
Raindrops on roses and Whiskers on kittens Bright copper kettles and Warm woolen mittens Brown paper packages Tied up with strings These are a few of My favorite things
Girls in white dresses With blue satin sashes Snowflakes that stay on My nose and eyelashes Silver white winters That melt into Springs These are a few of My favorite things
Raindrops on roses and Whiskers on kittens Bright copper kettles and Warm woolen mittens Brown paper packages Tied up with strings These are a few of My favorite things
Girls in white dresses With blue satin sashes Snowflakes that stay on My nose and eyelashes Silver white winters That melt into Springs These are a few of My favorite things
Cream colored ponies and Crisp apple strudels Door bells and sleigh bells And schnitzel with noodles Wild geese that fly with The moon on their wings These are a few of My favorite things
When the dog bites When the bee stings When I’m feeling sad I simply remember My favorite things And then I don’t feel so bad.
Cream colored ponies and Crisp apple strudels Door bells and sleigh bells And schnitzel with noodles Wild geese that fly with The moon on their wings These are a few of My favorite things
When the dog bites When the bee stings When I’m feeling sad I simply remember My favorite things And then I don’t feel so bad.
Cream colored ponies and Crisp apple strudels Door bells and sleigh bells And schnitzel with noodles Wild geese that fly with The moon on their wings These are a few of My favorite things
Raindrops on roses and Whiskers on kittens
Girls in white dresses With blue satin sashes
Raindrops on roses and Whiskers on kittens Bright copper kettles and Warm woolen mittens
Girls in white dresses With blue satin sashes Snowflakes that stay on My nose and eyelashes
Girls in white dresses With blue satin sashes Snowflakes that stay on My nose and eyelashes Silver white winters That melt into Springs These are a few of My favorite things
Brown paper packages Tied up with strings These are a few of My favorite things
Raindrops on roses and Whiskers on kittens Bright copper kettles and Warm woolen mittens Brown paper packages Tied up with strings These are a few of My favorite things
Chapter 39, p366, p371 Tiring of these sexual fantasies, I wander outside and go into my usual exercise routine. I hang on to the porch railing and go through an ab workout. Then I do some quick squats, followed by hard stretching. By this time I’m covered in sweat, so I wet my towel in the stream and wipe myself off. The cold water helps calm my nerves. I sit down on the porch and listen to Radiohead on my Walkman. Since I ran away I’ve been listening to the same music over and over—Radiohead’s Kid A, Prince’s Very Best of. Sometimes Coltrane’s My Favorite Things. The thing inside you has revealed itself. The shell is gone, completely shattered, nowhere to be seen, and it’s there, a dark shadow, resting. Your hands are sticky with something—human blood, by the look of it. You hold them out in front of you, but there’s not enough light to see. It’s far too dark. Both inside, and out.
My Favorite Things music by John Coltrane lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II John Coltrane (1926–1967) John William Coltrane, also known as “Trane” was an American jazz saxophonist and composer. Working in the bebop and hard bop idioms early in his career, Coltrane helped pioneer the use of modes in jazz and later was at the forefront of free jazz. He organized at least fifty recording sessions as a leader during his career, and appeared as a sideman on many other albums, notably with trumpeter Miles Davis and pianist Thelonious Monk. 43
Chapter 40, p379
Chapter 41, p387, p388
“Do you think music has the power to change people? Like you listen to a piece and go through some major change inside?” Oshima nodded. “Sure, that can happen. We have an experience—like a chemical reaction—that transforms something inside us. When we examine ourselves later on, we discover that all the standards we’ve lived by have shot up another notch and the world’s opened up in unexpected ways. Yes, I’ve had that experience. Not often, but it has happened. It’s like falling in love.” Hoshino had never fallen head over heels in love himself, but he went ahead and nodded anyway. “That’s gotta be a very important thing, right?” he said. “For our lives?” “It is,” Oshima answered. “Without those peak experiences our lives would be pretty dull and flat. Berlioz put it this way: A life without once reading Hamlet is like a life spent in a coal mine.”
“Listen up—there’s no war that will end all wars,” Crow tells me. “War breeds war. Lapping up the blood shed by violence, feeding on wounded flesh. War is a perfect, self-contained being. You need to know that.” I head off into the heart of the forest, a hollow man, a void that devours all that’s substantial. There is nothing left to fear. Not a thing. And I head off into the heart of the forest.
45
Chapter 42, p389 “I haven’t had any friends either, for quite some time,” Miss Saeki said. “Other than in memories.” “Miss Saeki?” “Yes?” she replied. “Actually, I don’t have any memories either. I’m dumb, you see, so could you tell me what memories are like?” Miss Saeki stared at her hands on the desk, then looked up at Nakata again. “Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.”
Chapter 43, p400, p401, p402 Not long afterward, the two soldiers appear. “We were waiting for you,” the tall one says. “For me?” I ask. “Sure,” he replies. “No one else is coming out here, that’s for sure.” “You knew I was coming?” I ask. “Sure thing,” the brawny one replies. “We’ve been standing guard here for a long time, so we know if somebody’s coming,” the other one said. “We’re like part of the forest.” “This is the entrance,” the brawny one says. “And we’re guarding it.” “And right now the entrance happens to be open,” the tall one explains. “Before long, though, it’ll close up. If you want to come in, now’s the time. It doesn’t open up all that often.” “We’ll lead the way,” the brawny one says. “The path’s hard to follow, so you need someone to guide you in.” “If you don’t come in, then go back where you came from,” the tall one says. “It’s not all that hard to find your way back, so don’t worry about it. You’ll do fine. Then you’ll return to the world you came from, to the life you’ve been living. The choice is entirely up to you. Nobody’s going to force you to do one or the other. But once you’re in, it isn’t easy to turn back.” “Take me inside,” I answer without a moment’s hesitation.
47
Chapter 44, p408
Chapter 45, p415, p423
Alone in the room with the corpse, Hoshino noticed how, very gradually, all sounds disappeared. How the real sounds around him steadily lost their reality. Meaningful sounds all ended up as silence. And the silence grew, deeper and deeper, like silt on the bottom of the sea. It accumulated at his feet, reached up to his waist, then up to his chest. He watched as the layers of silence rose up higher and higher. He sat down on the sofa and gazed at Nakata’s face, trying to accept the fact that he was really gone. It took him a long time to accept it. As he sat there the air began to feel strangely heavy and he could no longer tell if his thoughts and feelings were really his. But there were a few things he started to understand. Maybe death would take Nakata back to the way he used to be. When he was alive, he was always good old Nakata, a not–so–bright, cat-talking old man. Maybe death was the only road back to being the “normal Nakata” he’d always talked about. “Hey, Gramps,” Hoshino said. “Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but if you gotta die, this isn’t such a bad way to go.”
“When we were soldiers they used to force us to practice ripping open the enemy’s stomach with a bayonet,” the brawny one says. “You know the best way to stab someone with a bayonet?” “No,” I reply. “Well, first you stab your bayonet deep into his belly, then you twist it sideways. That rips the guts to ribbons. Then the guy dies a horrible, slow, painful death. But if you just stab without twisting, then your enemy can jump up and rip your guts to shreds. That’s the kind of world we were in.”
An awful pain, but the funny thing is I’m thankful for it. It’s like that frozen pain and my very existence are one. The pain is an anchor, mooring me here.
Being with her I feel a pain, like a frozen knife stuck in my chest. An awful pain, but the funny thing is I’m thankful for it. It’s like that frozen pain and my very existence are one. The pain is an anchor, mooring me here. The girl stands up to boil some water and make tea. While I’m sitting at the table drinking it, she carries the dirty dishes out to the kitchen and starts washing them. I watch her do all this. I want to say something, but when I’m with her words no longer function as they’re supposed to. Or maybe the meaning that ties them together has vanished? I stare at my hands and think of the dogwood outside the window, glinting in the moonlight. That’s where the blade that’s stabbing me in the heart is.
49
Chapter 46, p425
The Boy Named Crow, p432
Hoshino plopped down on the living-room sofa, trying to pass the time. He didn’t feel like listening to music or reading. Twilight came on, the room by degrees turning dark, but he didn’t even get up to switch on the light. He felt completely drained, and once ensconced on the sofa couldn’t rouse himself enough to get up. Time came slowly and passed slowly, so leisurely that at times he could swear it had stealthily doubled back on itself. When his own grandfather died, he thought, it was hard, but nothing like this. He’d suffered through a long illness, and they all knew it was just a matter of time. So when he did die, they were prepared. It makes a big difference whether or not you have a chance to steel yourself for the inevitable. But that’s not the only difference, Hoshino concluded. There was something about Nakata’s death that forced him to think long and hard.
“I made this flute out of the souls of cats I’ve collected. Cut out the souls of cats while they were still alive and made them into this flute. I felt sorry for the cats, of course, cutting them up like that, but I couldn’t help it. This flute is beyond any world’s standards of good and evil, love or hatred. Making these flutes has been my longtime calling, and I’ve always done a decent job of fulfilling my role and doing my bit. Nothing to be ashamed of. I got married, had children, and made more than enough flutes. So I’m not going to make any more. Just between you and me, I’m thinking of taking all the flutes I’ve made and creating a much larger, far more powerful flute out of them—a super-size flute that becomes a system unto itself. Right now I’m heading to a place where I can construct that kind of flute. I’m not the one who decides whether that flute turns out to be good or evil, and neither are you. It all depends on when and where I am. In that sense I’m a man totally without prejudices, like history or the weather—completely unbiased. And since I am, I can transform into a kind of system.”
51
Chapter 47, p437, p441
Chapter 48, p449
“Is it sort of a communal lifestyle here?” She considers this. “Everyone does live together, and share certain things. Like the shower rooms, the electrical station, the market. There are certain simple, unspoken agreements in place, but nothing complicated. Nothing you need to think about, or even put into words. So there isn’t anything I need to teach you about how things are done. The most important thing about life here is that people let themselves be absorbed into things. As long as you do that, there won’t be any problems.” “What do you mean by absorbed?” “It’s like when you’re in the forest, you become a seamless part of it. When you’re in the rain, you’re a part of the rain. When you’re in the morning, you’re a seamless part of the morning. When you’re with me, you become a part of me.”
“So you’ve got to kill it. Liquidate it with extreme prejudice, as I said. Mr. Nakata would’ve wanted you to. So do it for him. You’ve taken on his role now. You’ve always been a happy-go-lucky type, never taking responsibility for anything, right? Now’s the chance to make up for that. Don’t blow it, okay? I’ll be rooting for you.”
“A long time ago I abandoned someone I shouldn’t have,” she says. “Someone I loved more than anything else. I was afraid someday I’d lose this person. So I had to let go myself. If he was going to be stolen away from me, or I was going to lose him by accident, I decided it was better to discard him myself. Of course I felt anger that didn’t fade, that was part of it. But the whole thing was a huge mistake. It was someone I should never have abandoned.”
53
Chapter 49, p463–464, p467
Chapter 49, p467
Oshima lightly taps the eraser end of a pencil against his temple a couple of times. The phone rings, but he ignores it. “Every one of us is losing something precious to us,” he says after the phone stops ringing. “Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That’s part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads—at least that’s where I imagine it—there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live forever in your own private library.”
Time weighs down on you like an old, ambiguous dream. You keep on moving, trying to slip through it. But even if you go to the ends of the earth, you won’t be able to escape it. Still, you have to go there— to the edge of the world. There’s something you can’t do unless you get there.
Time weighs down on you like an old, ambiguous dream. You keep on moving, trying to slip through it.
“But I still don’t know anything about life,” I protest. “Look at the painting,” he says. “And listen to the wind.” I nod. “I know you can do it.” I nod again. “You’d better get some sleep,” the boy named Crow says. “When you wake up, you’ll be part of a brand-new world.” You finally fall asleep. And when you wake up, it’s true. You are part of a brand-new world.
But even if you go to the ends of the earth, you won’t be able to escape it. Still, you have to go there— to the edge of the world. There’s something you can’t do unless you get there.
55
You finally fall asleep. And when you wake up, it’s true.
You are part of a brand-new world
KAFKA designed by Chieh-Ping Chen typeface: Goudy Old Style texted from: Kafka on The Shore by Haruki Murakami celebrity biographies from: www.wikipedia.org images and lyrics from: www.google.com photo credit: Black Crow in Flight by Michelle * ……………………. cover Water Ocean Black Sea desktop wallpaper by MicroMice……………………... p3 South Island Road Trip by Jeremy Ashkenas …….... p5 Yakushima Island from: alljapantours.com ………… p7 Oldman And His Cat by sandae_past ……………………………………………………………………. p9 Weston State Hospital by Darren Ketchum ………… p11 TV Static from: overheadproductions.wordpress.com……………….. p13 Forest House by Mike Robinson ………………………. p15 Blurred Memories by Huma Dar ………………………. p17 Historia De La Guerra I from: es.wallpapersus.com ……………………………………………………………………. p18 How Far Away by luuluuuuu ………………………….. p19 All About Eye from: aspiestory.wordpress.com ….. p22 Jack Gunter Art and Antiques from: royaltouchart.blogspot.com …………………… p25 Cloudy Day at The Beach by zombie-puppies …….. p26 Medical X-Ray Imaging by Nevit Dilmen ……………. p28 Shaped Charge Jet Thru Plate from: www.thermeon.com……………………………………….. p29 Act one, scene five: Kitchen by Toby Huddlestone ……………………………………………………………………. p31 How to take great photos of reflections with your iPhone from: blog.keepsy.com …………………………………... p32 Chaos city by Kerr Lee ………………………………….... p33 Water from: lavishyourlife.com ……………………….. p35 Barbed Wire Fence from: thebeaconmag.com …….. p37 Lamentation by Karezoid Michal Karcz …………….. p41 Forest–Olympic National Washington from: creepypasta.wikia.com ………………………….. p45 Victim of Indians by William Abraham Bell ………. p48 Light in a Dark Room by Ame-Stock …………………. p50 Overgrown 2 by Mike Robinson ………………………. p52 Sunrise from: www.nasa.gov ……………………………. p53 The Fiction Alcove from: www.buzzfeed.com ……... p54
This book is inspired by Haruki Marukami’s novel, Kafka on the Shore. I title my book “Kafka” which is not only the main character in that novel, but also stands for an unique thought. Combining photography and typography elements, I try to reinterpret that novel’s plots, scenes and important music. When you read it, you will have totally different experience and realize the world I see in his novel.
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