topics: |  fiction | japan

Excerpts

Meditation on a sofa

Doing different tabulation jobs, I've slept on a lot of sofas, and let me
tell you, the comfortable ones are few and far between. Typically, they're
cheap deadweight. Even the most luxurious-looking sofas are a disappointment
when you actually try to sleep on them. I never understand how people can be
lax about choosing sofas.

I always say — a prejudice on my part, I'm sure — you can tell a lot about a
person's character from his choice of sofa. Sofas constitute a realm
inviolate unto themselves.  This, however, is something that only those who
have grown up sitting on good sofas will appreciate. It's like growing up
reading good books or listening to good music. One good sofa breeds another
good sofa; one bad sofa breeds another bad sofa. That's how it goes.

There are people who drive luxury cars, but have only second- or third-rate
sofas in their homes. I put little trust in such people. An expensive
automobile may well be worth its price, but it's only an expensive
automobile. If you have the money, you can buy it, anyone can buy
it. Procuring a good sofa, on the other hand, requires style and experience
and philosophy. It takes money, yes, but you also need a vision of the
superior sofa. That sofa among sofas.

The sofa I presently stretched out on was first-class, no doubt about it.

Surrendering my shadow

... we all had shadows. They were with us constantly. But when I came to
this Town, my shadow was taken away.

"You cannot come into Town with that," said the Gatekeeper. "Either you lose
the shadow or forget about coming inside."

I surrendered my shadow.

The Gatekeeper had me stand in an open space beside the Gate. The
three-o'clock afternoon sun fixed my shadow fast to the ground.

"Keep still now," the Gatekeeper told me. Then he produced a knife and deftly
worked it in between the shadow and the ground. The shadow writhed in
resistance. But to no avail.

Its dark form peeled neatly away.

Severed from the body, it was an altogether poorer thing. It lost strength.

The Gatekeeper put away his blade. "What do you make of it? Strange thing
once you cut it off," he said. "Shadows are useless anyway. Deadweight."

I drew near the shadow. "Sorry, I must leave you for now," I said. "It was
not my idea. I had no choice. Can you accept being alone for a while?"

"A while? Until when?" asked the shadow. I did not know.

"Sure you won't regret this later?" said the shadow in a hushed voice. "It's
wrong, I tell you. There's something wrong with this place. People can't live
without their shadows, and shadows can't live without people. Yet they're
splitting us apart. I don't like it. There's something wrong here."

But it was too late. My shadow and I were already torn apart.

---
Like most persons accustomed to years of giving orders, he speaks with his
spine straight and his chin tucked in.

[in the middle of a run to escape the INKlings]
The further we traveled in the darkness, the more I began to feel estranged
from my body.  I couldn't see it, and after a while, you start to think the
body is nothing but a hypothetical construct. Sure, I could feel my wound and
the ground beneath the soles of my feet. But these were just kinesthesis and
touch, primitive notions stemming from the premise of a body. These
sensations could continue even after the body is gone. Like an amputee
getting itchy toes.

Juxtapositions

Didn't they ever teach you about leeches in school?"
"No," I admitted. That's me, dumb as the anchor under a buoy.

[they discover an accordion]
"What sounds!" smiles the fascinated Caretaker. "As if they change colors!"

"Do you really think you can read out my mind?" she asks me, face to face.
"It is like looking for lost drops of rain in a river."

Happy screws

He had sorted screws of different sizes into clean white trays. They looked
so happy.

I returned to the car and listened to the Brandenburg Concertos while I
waited. I thought about the screws and their happiness. Maybe they were glad
to be free of the egg-beater, to be independent screws, to luxuriate on white
trays. It did feel good to see them happy.

Postmodern juxtapositions

We made love three times. Euphoria. My erections had been perfect as the
pyramids at Giza.

I set down the receiver with a tinge of sadness, knowing I'd never see her
again. I was watching the chandeliers get carried out of a once-grand hotel,
now bankrupt. One by one the windows are sealed, the curtains taken down.

"I like the moments of darkness before dawn," she said. "Probably because
it's a clean slate. Clean and unused."

The autumn sky was as clear as if it had been made that very morning. Perfect
Duke Ellington weather.

Two people can sleep in the same bed and still be alone when they close their
eyes...

All that is left to me is the sound of the snow underfoot.