She didn’t have it in her to keep tabs on everyone else’s emotions and then to fit her own emotions in without stomping on people. It was all she could do to keep on top of herself. As a result, she hurt others, which only hurt herself. A hard life. A little too hard for a thirteen-year-old. Hard even for an adult. I.
To tell the truth, I do not know this thing called ‘mind,’ what it does or how to use it. It is only a word I have heard.” “The mind is nothing you use,” I say. “The mind is just there. It is like the wind. You simply feel its movements.
There’s nothing left here. Not one thing left for you.
You need to use the thread of logic, as best you can, to skillfully sew onto yourself everything that’s worth living for.
Yes, it was. The process of writing was important. Even though the finished product is meaningless.
Even now that feeling would sometimes spring up. The sense of leaving himself. Of observing his own pain as if it were not his own.
Tsukuru Tazaki had nowhere he had to go. This was like a running theme of his life. He had no place he had to go to, no place to come back to. He never did, and he didn’t now. The only place for him was where he was now.
I wish I had fallen in love with somebody a little more handsome, of course. But I didn’t. I fell in love wit you.
If we were no longer here, words would lose their whole function. Don’t you think so? They would end up as words that are never spoken, and words that aren’t spoken are no longer words.
Sometimes, in this multifaceted world of ours, inconsistency can be more eloquent than consistency. 5.
When the sun went down, and touches of blue filtered into the fading afterglow, an orange lamp would light up in the knob of the bell and slowly begin to revolve. The beacon always pinpointed the onset of nightfall exactly. Against the most gorgeous sunsets or in dim drizzling mist, the beacon was ever true to its appointed moment: that precise instant in the alchemy of light and dark when darkness tipped the scales.
I was alive in the past, and I’m alive now, sitting here talking to you. But what you see here isn’t really me. This is just a shadow of who I was. You are really living. But I’m not. Even these words I’m saying right now sound empty, like an echo.
When everything’s twisted, what’s normal ends up looking weird too.
It may well be that we can never fully adapt to our own deformities. Unable to find a place inside ourselves for the very real pain and suffering that these deformities cause.
All’s well that ends well.” “Assuming there’s an end somewhere,” Aomame said. Tamaru formed some short creases near his mouth that were faintly reminiscent of a smile. “There has to be an end somewhere. It’s just that nothing’s labeled ‘This is the end.’ Is the top rung of a ladder labeled ‘This is the last rung. Please don’t step higher than this’?
This “IF” is way too big.
I don’t know, but does it matter?
I want to write stories that are different from the ones I’ve written so far, Junpei thought: I want to write about people who dream and wait for the night to end, who long for the light so they can hold the ones they love.
If we own things, we’re terrified we’ll lose them; if we’ve got nothing we worry it’ll be that way forever.
We lie through our teeth, then swallow our tongues.