I tried hard to forget, but there remained inside me a vague knot of air. And as time went by, the knot began to take on a clear and simpleform, a form that I am able to put into words, like this: Death exists, not as the opposite but as a part of life. It's a clich translated into words, but at the time I felt it not as wordsbut as that knot of air inside me. Death exists - in a paperweight, infour red and white balls on a pool table - and we go on living andbreathing it into our lungs like fine dust.
Haruki MurakamiAbout author
- Author's profession: Writer
- Nationality: japanese
- Born: January 12, 1949
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He saw it for the first time: on the day he died he would be wearing unmatching socks, there would be unanswered e-mails, and in the hovel he called home there would still be shirts missing cuff buttons, a malfunctioning light in the hall, and unpaid bills, uncleared attics, dead flies, friends waiting for a reply and lovers he had not owned up to.
Ian Mcewan
