The people around me had gone on ahead long before, while my time and I hung back, struggling through the mud. I trudged along through each day in its turn, rarely looking up, eyes locked on the never-ending swamp that lay before me, planting my right foot, raising my left, planting my left foot, raising my right, never sure where I was, never sure I was headed in the right direction, knowing only that I had to keep moving, one step at a time.
I felt as if I had become part of a badly written novel, that someone was taking me to task for being utterly unreal. And perhaps it was true.
He considered using the time to think, but he couldn’t think of anything to think about.
It is the inherent right of all writers to experiment with the possibilities of language in every way they can imagine – without that adventurous spirit, nothing new can ever be born.
Maybe a person really has to die to understand what it’s like.
Whatever,” said Nagasawa. “But Watanabe’s practically the same as me. He may be a nice guy, but deep down in his heart he’s incapable of loving anybody. There’s always some part of him somewhere that’s wide awake and detached. He just has that hunger that won’t go away. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.
Kalau kita membaca buku yang sama dengan yang dibaca orang lain, kita cuma bisa berpikir seperti orang lain. Watanabe, kamu tahu? Di asrama ini, orang yang bisa dianggap manusia itu cuma aku dan kamu. Yang lainnya, semua kertas sampah belaka.
I was a vacant room. Inside, the music produces only a dry, hollow echo.
You’re the type of guy who takes longer than other people to be convinced of anything. But long term, I think time is on your side.
It is beyond comprehension who the waves are roaring for, who listens to them at nights here, what they want, and finally, who they would roar for when I was gone.
If the need arose, she knew, she would never hesitate to apply her sophisticated techniques in actual combat. ‘If there’s anyone crazy enough to attack me, I’m going to show him the end of the world – close up. I’m going to let him sing the kingdom come with his own eyes. I’m going to send him straight to the Southern Hemisphere and let the ashes of death rain all over him and the kangaroos and the wallabies.
Girls who are on top of things must have three hundred ways of responding to tired thirty-five-year-old divorced men.
You have to patiently learn to live together with your shadow. And carefully observe the darkness that resides within you. Sometimes in a dark tunnel you have to confront your own dark side.
But In dreams begin responsibilities, right?” Oshima nods. “Yeats.
Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness, a story. – Tolstoy.
It all seemed like a short dream. But I knew very well that it wasn’t. If this was a dream, then the world I’m living in itself must all be a dream.
People need things like that to go on living – mental landscapes that have meaning for them, even if they can’t explain them in words. Part of why we live is to come up with explanations for these things. That’s what I think.
You might not move your body around, but there’s grueling, dynamic labour going on inside you. Everybody uses their mind when they think. But a writer puts on an outfit called narrative and thinks with his entire being; and for the novelist that process requires putting into play all your physical reserve, often to the point of overexertion.
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.
I’ve always enjoyed this time, early in the morning, gazing intently at a pure white canvas. “Canvas Zen” is my term for it. Nothing is painted there yet, but it’s more than a simple blank space. Hidden on that white canvas is what must eventually emerge. As I look more closely, I discover various possibilities, which congeal into a perfect clue as to how to proceed. That’s the moment I really enjoy. The moment when existence and nonexistence coalesce.