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2013-08-14 21:49:26|  分类: 原著欣赏 |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

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Kafka on the Shore
      by Haruki Murakami

小说:海边的卡夫卡 - 兔灰灰 - 兔灰灰的小窝  

You've already decided what you're going to do, and all that's left is to set the wheels in motion. I mean, it's your life. Basically you gotta go with what you think is right. 

No matter how far you run. Distance might not solve anything. 

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.  

It's like one of those Greek tragedy masks in a textbook that's half one idea and half the opposite. Light and dark. Hope and despair. Laughter and sadness. 

The sky looks ominous one minute, inviting the next. It all depends on the angle. 

"'In traveling, a companion, in life, compassion,'" 

But mistakes are part of life, and some things we aren't meant to understand, I suppose. 

When I open them, most of the books have the smell of an earlier time leaking out between the pages--a special odor of the knowledge and emotions that for ages have been calmly resting between the covers. 

All I know is I'm totally alone. All alone in an unfamiliar place, like some solitary explorer who's lost his compass and his map.

It's easy to forget things you don't need anymore. 

Golden sunlight filled the vacant lot but the air held a hint of rain, something Otsuka was able to sense. 

My head was completely empty, like a bathtub after you pull the plug. 

Just a quiet early afternoon. Everything was at rest, placid, harmonious. 

We're so caught up in our everyday lives that events of the past, like ancient stars that have burned out, are no longer in orbit around our minds. 

A dense, artistic kind of imperfection stimulates your consciousness, keeps you alert. 

He was somewhere between young and old, handsome and ugly. 

The man's lips twisted slightly. For a brief moment a cold smile rose like a distorted ripple on the surface of water, vanished, then rose up again. 

That dream crept inside you, right down the dark corridor of your soul." 

Silence, I discover, is something you can actually hear. 

Closing your eyes isn't going to change anything. Nothing's going to disappear just because you can't see what's going on. In fact, things will be even worse the next time you open your eyes. That's the kind of world we live in, Mr. Nakata. 

This is war. It's hard to stop a war once it starts. Once the sword is drawn, blood's going to be spilled. 

That's how stories happen--with a turning point, an unexpected twist. There's only one kind of happiness, but misfortune comes in all shapes and sizes. It's like Tolstoy said. Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story. 

"Kafka, 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." 

The library is quiet enough most of the time, but on a day like this when it's closed it's like the land that time forgot. Or more like a place that's holding its breath, hoping time won't stumble upon it. 

Is the Governor a capitalist?"

"Yeah, I suppose. Governors are more likely to be capitalists' lapdogs, though." 

"The world's swarming with those kind of dogs. Pawns of the capitalists."


"Like paws, with an 'n'." 

"Things change every day, Mr. Nakata. With each new dawn it's not the same world as the day before. And you're not the same person you were, either. 

"Connections change too. Who's the capitalist, who's the proletarian. Who's on the right, who's on the left. The information revolution, stock options, floating assets, occupational restructuring, multinational corporations--what's good, what's bad. Boundaries between things are disappearing all the time.

 Man doesn't choose fate. Fate chooses man. 

"That's a pretty twisted way of thinking," Oshima says.

"In our home everything was twisted. And when everything's twisted, what's normal ends up looking weird too. 

In the depths of our crater lake, everything is silent. The volcano's been extinct for ages. Layer upon layer of solitude, like folds of soft mud. The little bit of light that manages to penetrate to the depths lights up the surroundings like the remains of some faint, distant memory. 

Time's rules don't apply here. Time expands, then contracts, all in tune with the stirrings of the heart. 

Until Edison invented the electric light, most of the world was totally covered in darkness. The physical darkness outside and the inner darkness of the soul were mixed together, with no boundary separating the two.

 One by one the words find a home in my heart. It's a weird feeling. Images beyond any meaning arise like cutout figures and stand alone, just like when I'm in the middle of a deep dream. 

She didn't write the song for others to hear, but for herself, to warm her own heart, if even a little. 

That would explain the title: a solitary soul straying by an absurd shore. 

The sky's covered with a layer of gray clouds, but it doesn't look like it's going to rain anytime soon. It's a quiet, still morning. Like a layer of soundproofing, the clouds absorb every sound the earth sends up. 

"From time immemorial, symbolism and poetry have been inseparable. Like a pirate and his rum." 

If the words can't create a prophetic tunnel connecting them to the reader, then the whole thing no longer functions as a poem. 

"If talent's a kind of natural energy, doesn't it have to find an outlet?"

"I don't know," he replies. "Nobody can predict where talent's headed. Sometimes it simply vanishes. Other times it sinks down under the earth like an underground stream and flows off who knows where." 

He didn't enjoy talking with other kids his age--they were on a different wavelength--so he spent most of his time holed up in his room, reading or listening to music. 

"My grandpa always said asking a question is embarrassing for a moment, but not asking is embarrassing for a lifetime." 

For me, inside this physical body--this defective container--the most important job is surviving from one day to the next. It could be simple, or very hard. It all depends on how you look at it. Either way, even if things go well, that's not some great achievement. Nobody's going to give me a standing ovation or anything.

 "The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory."

 A life without revelation is no life at all. 

Words are asleep in a corner of time. 

So the past comes before the present, the future after it. Things can get a little out of order, that's okay. 

"There're a lot of odd things going on--but I feel like I'm slowly getting closer to the truth."

"Actually getting closer to a metaphorical truth? Or metaphorically getting closer to an actual truth? Or maybe they supplement each other?" 

A shabby, miserable sort of building. The kind where shabby people spend one shabby day after another doing their shabby work. The kind of fallen-from-grace sort of building you find in any city, the kind Charles Dickens could spend ten pages describing. 

"Having an object that symbolizes freedom might make a person happier than actually getting the freedom it represents." 

"Perhaps most people in the world aren't trying to be free, Kafka. They just think they are. It's all an illusion. If they really were set free, most people would be in a real bind. You'd better remember that. People actually prefer not being free." 

"Pierre Fournier's one of my absolute favorite musicians. Like an elegant wine, his playing has an aroma and substance that warms the blood and gently encourages you. 

"There are a lot of things that aren't your fault. Or mine, either. Not the fault of prophecies, or curses, or DNA, or absurdity. Not the fault of Structuralism or the Third Industrial Revolution. We all die and disappear, but that's because the mechanism of the world itself is built on destruction and loss. Our lives are just shadows of that guiding principle. Say the wind blows. It can be a strong, violent wind or a gentle breeze. But eventually every kind of wind dies out and disappears. Wind doesn't have form. It's just a movement of air. You should listen carefully, and then you'll understand the metaphor." 

"Things that are open have to be shut. Things you have, you gotta return the way they were. All right already! Anyhow, I've decided not to think about things so much. I'll go along with whatever you want, no matter how crazy it sounds. I had a kind of revelation last night. Taking crazy things seriously is--a serious waste of time."

"A very wise conclusion. There's that saying, 'Pointless thinking is worse than no thinking at all.'" 

The longer people live, the more they learn to distinguish what's important from what's not. 

Berlioz put it this way: A life without once reading Hamlet is like a life spent in a coal mine. 

"Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart." 

But things in the past are like a plate that's shattered to pieces. You can never put it back together like it was, right?" 

When you surf you learn not to fight the power of nature, even if it gets violent." 

"That's another thing that words can't explain. One of those things that's neither a yes or a no answer." 

It's like you get to be friends with death, have a heart-to-heart talk with it." 

"Every one of us is losing something precious to us," he says after the phone stops ringing. "Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That's part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads--at least that's where I imagine it--there's a little room where we store those memories. 

"If you remember me, then I don't care if everyone else forgets."






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