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I love pop culture -- the Rolling Stones, the Doors, David Lynch, things like that. That's why I said I don't like elitism.

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
Stones
Doors
Culture
Things
Elitism
Love
Lynch
Like
David
Rolling
Pops

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Killing time is not an easy job.
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Probably. Again with the probablys. A world full of probablys, she said.
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You couldn’t begin to imagine who I am, where I’m going, or what I’m about to do, All of you are trapped here. You can’t go anywhere, forward or back. But I’m not like you. I have work to do. I have a mission to accomplish. And so, with your permission, I shall move ahead.
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You’re here,” I continued. “At least you look as if you’re here. But maybe you aren’t. Maybe it’s just your shadow. The real you may be someplace else. Or maybe you already disappeared, a long, long time ago. I reach out my hand to see, but you’ve hidden yourself behind a cloud of probablys. Do you think we can go on like this forever?
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Nobody's going to win all the time. On the highway of life you can't always be in the fast lane.
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Some things in life are too complicated to explain in any language.
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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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Silence. How long it lasted, I couldn't tell. It might have been five seconds, it might have been a minute. Time wasn't fixed. It wavered, stretched, shrank. Or was it me that wavered, stretched, and shrank in the silence? I was warped in the folds of time, like a reflection in a fun house mirror.
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She was hearing everything that went on in his heart, like a person who can trace a map with his fingertip and conjure up vivid, living scenery.
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How many Sundays - how many hundreds of Sundays like this - lay ahead of me? “Quiet, peaceful, and lonely,” I said aloud to myself. On Sundays, I didn't wind my spring.
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Ordinary imperfect people, always choose similarly imperfect people as friends.
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Mediocrity's like a spot on a shirt—it never comes off.
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I don't know how many good books I still have in me I hope there are another four or five.
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Everybody has to start somewhere. You have your whole future ahead of you. Perfection doesn't happen right away.
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I wasn't particularly afraid of death itself. As Shakespeare said, die this year and you don't have to die the next.
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Loneliness becomes an acid that eats away at you.
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Kids' hearts are malleable, but once they gel it's hard to get them back the way they were.
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It made her think of Laika, the dog. The man-made satellite streaking soundlessly across the blackness of outer space. The dark, lustrous eyes of the dog gazing out the tiny window. In the infinite loneliness of space, what could the dog possibly be looking at?
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...most people in the world don't really use their brains to think. And people who don't think are the ones who don't listen to others.
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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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