Haruki murakami
A devastating absence hovered about my apartment. I stayed shut-in for six months. I never went out during the day, except to make the absolute minimum purchases necessary to survive. I'd venture into the city with the first gray of dawn and walk the deserted streets, and when the streets started to fill with people, I holed up back indoors to sleep.
Towards the evening I'd rise, fix something to eat, feed the cat. Then I'd sit on the floor and methodically go over the things that had happened to me, trying to make sense of them. Rearrange the order of events, list up all possible alternatives, consider the right or wrong of what I'd done. This went on until the dawn, when I'd go out and wander the streets again.
For half a year that was my daily routine. From January through June 1979, I didn't read one book. I didn't open one newspaper. I didn't watch TV, didn't listen to the radio. Never saw anyone, never talked to anyone. I hardly even drank; I wasn't in a drinking frame of mind. I had no idea what was going on in the world, who'd become famous, who'd died, nothing. It wasn't that I stubbornly resisted information, I simply had no desire to know anything. Even so, I knew things were happening. The world didn't stop....
I'd been damaged, badly I suppose. The damage was not petty. Blood had flowed, quietly.
_
I knew what was eating her. We got along well, but what she was after, the image in her mind, was somewhere else, not where I was. She wanted a kind of autonomy of communication. A scene where the hero -whose name was "Communication" -led the masses to a bright, bloodless revolution, spotless white flags waving. So that perfection would swallow imperfection and make it whole. To me, love is a pure idea forged in flesh, awkwardly maybe, but it had to connect somewhere, despite twist and turns of underground cable. An all-too-imperfect thing. Sometimes the lines get crossed. Or you get the wrong number. But that's nobody's fault. It'll always be like that, as long as we exist in this physical form. As a matter of principle.
I explained it to her. Over and over again.
Then one day she left.
_
"Sex as 'business gifts and entertainment.' Amazing, huh?"
"Advanced capitalism," I said.
_
I was beginning to understand what Hiraku Makimura meant about Ame's wearing him down. Ame didn't give anything. She only took. She consumed those around her to sustain herself. And those around her always gave. Her talent was manifested in a powerful gravitational pull. She believed it was her privilege, her right. Harmony and peace. In order for her to have that, she had everyone waiting on her hand and foot.
_
Instead of regretting what you did, you could have treated him decently from the beginning. You could've tried to be fair. But you didn't. You don't even have the right to be sorry.
Maybe I'm being too hard on you. But listen, I don't care what other people do. I don't want to hear that sort of talk from you. You shouldn't say things like that lightly, as if saying them is going to solve anything. They don't stick. You think you feel sorry for Dick, but I don't believe you really do. If I were Dick, I wouldn't want you easy regret. I wouldn't want people saying, 'Oh I acted horribly.' It's not a question of manners; it's a question of fairness. That's something you have to learn.
_
thought provoking eh?
