It was just the same old familiar moon. The one and only satellite that has faithfully circled the earth, at the same speed, from before human memory.
The “world” – the word always makes me think of a tortoise and elephants tirelessly supporting a gigantic disc. The elephants have no knowledge of the tortoise’s role, the tortoise unable to see what the elephants are doing. And neither is the least aware of the world on their backs.
I have the impression that elsewhere we may all have lived totally other lives, and that somehow we have forgotten that time. Have you ever felt that way?
Death, of course, lasts forever.
His heart writhed in a swamp of loneliness. He lived in his own special hell.
That does it for me, then. I’m not going to believe in any damned revolution. Love is all I’m going to believe in.” “Peace,” I said. “Peace,” said Midori.
It’s not a question of making yourself believe there is an orange there, you have to forget there isn’t one.
She was the only thing that held together the fragile, provisional me.
It would have been so easy if only I could have cried. But crying wasn’t an option, because I felt that far ahead of me there was something really worth crying about.
I never knew that spring could be so painful and lonely.
Everything was bathed in the white, unreal light of the moon, the yard like the wet bottom of a sea from which the water has just been suddenly removed.
There is no one in this world who can’t be replaced. A person might have enormous knowledge or ability, but a successor can almost always be found. It would be terrible for us if the world were full of people who couldn’t be replaced.
Language is very tough, though, a tenacity that is backed up by a long history. However it is treated, its autonomy cannot be lost or seriously damaged, even if that treatment is rather rough. 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.
Exerting yourself to the fullest within your individual limits: that’s the essence of running, and a metaphor for life – and for me, for writing as well. I believe many runners would agree.
Whether you admit them or not, mistakes are mistakes.
Even if no one would miss me, even if I left no blank space in anyone’s life, even if no one noticed, I couldn’t leave willingly.
Well, with facts what’s important is their weight and accuracy. Warmth is secondary.
A life without revelation is no life at all.
Even if there were two of me, I still couldn’t do all that has to be done. No matter what, though, I keep up my running. Running every day is a kind of lifeline for me, so I’m not going to lay off or quit just because I’m busy. If I used being busy as an excuse not to run, I’d never run again. I have only a few reasons to keep on running, and a truckload of them to quit. All I can do is keep those few reasons nicely polished.
Do you know what limbo is? It’s the neutral point between life and death. A kind of sad, gloomy place. Where I am now, in other words – this forest.