__ __ hy? It's simple, really. In order for me to think about something, I | |
\ \ /\ / / have to first put it into writing. | |
\ V V / | |
\_/\_/ It's been that way since I was little. When I didn't understand | |
something, I gathered up the words scattered at my feet, and lined them up into | |
sentences. If that didn't help, I'd scatter them again, rearrange them in a | |
different order. Repeat that a number of times, and I was able to think about | |
things like most people. Writing for me was never difficult. Other children | |
gathered pretty stones or acorns, and I wrote. As naturally as breathing, I'd | |
scribble down one sentence after another. And I'd think. | |
No doubt you think it's a time-consuming process to reach a conclusion, seeing | |
as how every time I thought about something I had to go through all those | |
steps. Or maybe you wouldn't think that. But in actual practice it did take | |
time. So much so that by the time I entered elementary school people thought I | |
was retarded. I couldn't keep up with the other kids. | |
When I finished elementary school the feeling of alienation this gave me had | |
lessened considerably. By then I'd found a way to keep pace with the world | |
around me. Still, until I quit college and broke off any relations with | |
officialdom, this gap existed inside me—like a silent snake in the grass. | |
My provisional theme here: On a day-to-day basis I use writing to figure out | |
who I am. | |
Right? | |
Right you are! | |
I've written an incredible amount up till now. Nearly every day. It's like I | |
was standing in a huge pasture, cutting the grass all by myself, and the grass | |
grows back almost as fast as I can cut it. Today I'd cut over here, tomorrow | |
over there. . . . By the time I make one complete round of the pasture the | |
grass in the first spot is as tall as it was in the beginning. | |
But since I met Miu I've barely written. Why is that? The Fiction = | |
Transmission theory K told me does make sense. On one level there's some truth | |
to it. But it doesn't explain everything. I've got to simplify my thinking | |
here. | |
Simplify, simplify. | |
What happened after I met Miu was, I stopped thinking. (Of course I'm using my | |
own individual definition of thinking here.) Miu and I were always together, | |
two interlocking spoons, and with her I was swept away somewhere—someplace I | |
couldn't fathom—and I just thought, OK, go with the flow. | |
In other words, I had to get rid of a lot of baggage to get closer to her. Even | |
the act of thinking became a burden. I think that explains it. No matter how | |
tall the grass got, I couldn't be bothered. I sprawled on my back, gazing up at | |
the sky, watching the billowy clouds drift by. Consigning my fate to the | |
clouds. | |
Giving myself up to the pungent aroma of the grass, the murmur of the wind. And | |
after a time I couldn't have cared less about the difference between what I | |
knew and what I didn't know. | |
* * * | |
Sputnik Sweetheart / Haruki Murakami | |
* * * | |
I saw them all suddenly |