The Conclusion

Posted: October 28, 2013 in Karma
Tags: , ,

Extracted from Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

Chapter 1, The Boy Named Crow, Page 4

ImageSometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing direction. 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 the dawn. Why? Because this storm is not something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside 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 storm 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 pulverised bones.

Cont. Page 5

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 many 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.

On my fifteenth birthday I’ll run away from home, journey to a far-off town and live in a corner of a small library.

About Kafka on the Shore:

A classic tale of quest, Kafka on the Shore follows the fortunes of two remarkable characters. Kafka Tamura runs away from home at fifteen, under the shadow of his father’s dark prophecy. The ageing Nakata, tracker of lost cats, who never recovered from a bizarre childhood affliction, finds his simple life suddenly turned upside down. A bold exploration of mythic and contemporary taboos, of patricides, of mother-love, of sister-love!

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