Only by learning the truth—whatever that truth might be—could people be given the right kind of power.
Haruki MurakamiTag: truth
Only people who've been discriminated against can really know how much it hurts. Each person feels the pain in his own way, each has his own scars. So I think I'm as concerned about fairness and justice as anybody. But what disgusts me even more are people who have no imagination. The kind T. S. Eliot calls hollow men. People who fill up that lack of imagination with heartless bits of straw, not even aware of what they're doing. Callous people who throw a lot of empty words at you, trying to force you to do what you don't want to. Like that lovely pair we just met.” He sighs and twirls the long slender pencil in his hand. “Gays, lesbians, straights, feminists, fascist pigs, communists, Hare Krishnas-- none of them bother me. I don't care what banner they raise. 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 “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?”
“'Cause if you take every single person who lacks much imagination seriously, there's no end to it,” I say.
All kinds of things are happening to me," I begin. "Some I chose, some I didn't. I don't know how to tell one from the other anymore. What I mean is, it feels like everything's been decided in advance--that I'm following a path somebody else has already mapped out for me. It doesn't matter how much I think things over, how much effort I put into it. In fact, the harder I try, the more I lose my sense of who I am. It's like my identity's an orbit that I've strayed far away from, and that really hurts. But more than that, it scares me. Just thinking about it makes me flinch.
Haruki MurakamiIt was the first time Junko felt a certain "something" as she watched the flames of a bonfire: "something" deep down, a "wad" of feeling, she might have called it, because it was too raw, too heavy, to real to be called an idea. It coursed through her body and vanished, leaving behind a sweet-sad, chest-gripping, strange sort of feeling.
Haruki MurakamiThere's nothing at all in here," she said much later, her voice hoarse. "I'm cleaned out. Empty.
Haruki MurakamiYou know something?" she said.
"What?"
"I'm completely empty."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah.
I don't know , sometimes I think I've got this hard kernel in my heart, and nothing much can get inside it. I doubt if I can really love anybody.
Haruki MurakamiDurum semolina, golden wheat wafting in Italian fields. Can you imagine how astonished the Italians would be if they knew that what they were exporting in 1971 was really loneliness
Haruki MurakamiTag: loneliness
What I mean to say is that in a highly exceptional reality [...] the non-exceptional can, for convenience sake, be written off as paradoxically exceptional.
Haruki MurakamiMe parecía imposible que la situación pudiese empeorar [...]. Pero, en definitiva, me equivocaba. El infierno, realmente, no tiene fondo.
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