Then when dusk began to settle he would retrace his steps, back to his own world. And on the way home, a loneliness would always claim his heart. He could never quite get a grip on what it was. It just seemed that whatever lay waiting "out there" was all too vast, too overwhelming for him to possibly ever make a dent in.
Haruki MurakamiI think of rivers, of tides. Forests and water gushing out. Rain and lightning. Rocks and shadows. All of these are in me.
Haruki MurakamiNo mistake about it. Ice is cold; roses are red; I'm in love. And this love is about to carry me off somewhere. The current's too overpowering; I don't have any choice. It may very well be a special place, some place I've never seen before. Danger may be lurking there, something that may end up wounding me deeply, fatally. I might end up losing everything. But there's no turning back. I can only go with the flow. Even if it means I'll be burned up, gone forever.
Haruki MurakamiAge certainly hadn't conferred any smarts on me. Character maybe, but mediocrity is a constant, as one Russian writer put it. Russian writers have a way with aphorisms. They probably spend all winter thinking them up.
Haruki MurakamiI do feel that Iโve managed to make something I could maybe call my worldโฆover timeโฆlittle by little. And when Iโm inside it, to some extent, I feel kind of relieved. But the very fact I felt I had to make such a world probably means that Iโm a weak person, that I bruise easily, donโt you think? And in the eyes of society at large, that world of mine is a puny little thing. Itโs like a cardboard house: a puff of wind might carry it off somewhere.
Haruki Murakami