Watched the “Killing season” movie on HBO last night, I was impressed by one thing
“Sometimes things become part of us, whether we want them to or not”, said Emic Kovac
It’s so true. That reminds me about one of my favourite book, Kafka on the shore, written by my favourite writer, Haruki Murakami.
Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.
You know why you love a book?
Light and dark. Hope and despair. Laughter and sadness. Trust and loneliness.
Either it’s fun or sad, you love it because between such beautiful words, you find yourself somewhere there.
I go back to the reading room, where I sink down in the sofa and into the world of The Arabian Nights. Slowly, like a movie fadeout, the real world evaporates. I’m alone, inside the world of the story. My favourite feeling in the world.
Either I do run away from the truth, I mean real distance, or step back and hide in my own tiny shell, at the end of the day, the only one I have to face with is myself.
No matter how far you run. Distance might not solve anything.
No matter how much time passes, no matter what takes place in the interim, there are some things we can never assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away. They remain with us forever, like a touchstone.
In everybody’s life there’s a point of no return. And in a very few cases, a point where you can’t go forward anymore. And when we reach that point, all we can do is quietly accept the fact. That’s how we survive.
Every one of us is losing something precious to us. Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That’s part of what it means to be alive.
None of Haruki Murakami’s books is fun. But if you’re looking for a quiet moment with a cup of tea on your right hand and a book on your left hand, you know which book should you pick.
This is a book for you by now and even for the next few years, when things change, life changes, even you change, you may absorb his words differently..