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Mere humans who root through their refrigerators at three o'clock in the morning can only produce writing that matches what they do. And that includes me.
Haruki Murakami
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Haruki Murakami
Age: 75
Born: 1949
Born: January 12
Athletics Competitor
Essayist
Linguist
Novelist
Prosaist
Science Fiction Writer
Translator
University Teacher
Writer
Kyōto
Murakami Haruki
Clock
Roots
Mere
Produce
Morning
Refrigerators
Three
Matches
Humans
Includes
Writing
Root
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I didn't feel like I was in my own body my body was just a lonely, temporary container I happened to be borrowing.
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Time flows in a strange way on Sundays.
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My very existence, my life in the world, seemed like a hallucination. A strong wind would make me think my body was about to be blown to the end of the earth, to some land I had never seen or heard of, where my mind and body would separate forever. “Hold tight,” I would tell myself, but there was nothing for me to hold on to.
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Find me now. Before someone else does.
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At the entrance to the original tower, there is a stone into which Jung carved some words with his own hand: 'Cold or not, God is present.
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You can hide memories, but you can’t erase the history that produced them.
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There had to be something wrong with my life. I should have been born a Yugoslavian shepherd who looked up at the Big Dipper every night.
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Life is like a box of cookies.
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I am here, alone, at the end of the world. I reach out and touch nothing.”.
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I was thirty-seven then, strapped in my seat as the huge 747 plunged through dense cloud cover on approach to the Hamburg airport.
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I used to think the years would go by in order, that you get older one year at a time. But it's not like that. It happens overnight.
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My face, my self, what would they mean to anybody? Just another stiff. So this self of mine passes some other's self on the street - what do we have to say to each other? Hey there! Hi ya!That's about it. Nobody raises a hand. No one turns around to take another look.
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Cell phones are so convenient that they're an inconvenience.
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Spending plenty of time on something can be the most sophisticated form of revenge.
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Lots of different ways to live and lots of different ways to die. But in the end that doesn't make a bit of difference. All that remains is a desert.
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Ordinary imperfect people, always choose similarly imperfect people as friends.
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We're both looking at the same moon, in the same world. We're connected to reality by the same line. All I have to do is quietly draw it towards me.
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What would tomorrow bring? I wondered. Both hands on the wheel, I closed my eyes. I didn’t feel like I was in my own body my body was just a lonely, temporary container I happened to be borrowing. What would become of me tomorrow I did not know.
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Not that we were incompatible: we just had nothing to talk about.
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It's just that you're about to do something out of the ordinary. And after you do something like that, the everyday look of things might seem to change a little. Things may look different to you than they did before. But don't let appearances fool you. There's always only one reality.
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