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It was a small room with dim light coming in the window, reminiscent of old Polish films.

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
Coming
Small
Film
Reminiscent
Light
Polish
Window
Films
Room
Rooms

More quotes by Haruki Murakami

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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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Passion can’t sustain itself forever.
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Don't let appearances fool you. There's always only one reality!
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You know what I should do? Hoshino asked excited. Of course, the cat said. What'd I tell you? Cats know everything. Not like dogs.
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Have your dream...What you need now more than anything is discipline. Cast off mere words. Words turn into stone. (from Thailand)
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But I found that the longer you teach, the more you feel like a total stranger to yourself
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I always feel like I'm struggling to become someone else. Like I'm trying to find a new place, grab hold of a new life, a new personality. I guess it's part of growing up it's also an attempt to reinvent myself.
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You’re optimistic one moment, only to be racked the next by the certainty that it will all fall to pieces. And in the end it does.
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Certain kinds of knowledge rob people of their sleep.
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When people tell a lie about something, they have to make up a bunch of lies to go with the first one. ‘Mythomania’ is the word for it.
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Who can really distinguish between the sea and what's reflected in it? Or tell the difference between the falling rain and loneliness?
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What I feel for her is a wholly different emotion. It stands and walks on its own, living and breathing and throbbing and shaking me to the roots of my being.
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I'm not afraid to die. What I'm afraid of is having reality get the better of me, of having reality leave me behind.
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What I want is for the two of us to meet somewhere by chance one day, like, passing on the street, or getting on the same bus.
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I wondered if she was trying to convey something to me, something she could not put into words - something prior to words that she could not grasp within herself and which therefore had no hope of ever turning into words.
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I closed my eyes and listened carefully for the descendants of Sputnik, even now circling the earth, gravity their only tie to the planet. Lonely metal souls in the unimpeded darkness of space, they meet, pass each other, and part, never to meet again. No words passing between them. No promises to keep.
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We're all kind of weird and twisted and drowning.
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Whether in music or in fiction, the most basic thing is rhythm. Your style needs to have good, natural, steady rhythm, or people won't keep reading your work.
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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 pickle. You’d better remember that. People actually prefer not being free?
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Sometimes when I look at you, I feel I'm gazing at a distant star. It's dazzling, but the light is from tens of thousands of years ago. Maybe the star doesn't even exist any more. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything.
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