Book: Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

I love long letters. Only nobody writes.

His smile was wonderful, like he wandered through a dense forest and suddenly came out into the brightly lit clearing.

Man can not live without himself. It's like the ground under my feet. It is not - and can not build anything.

On the fate of a human looking back then, to know in advance it is impossible.

Now you say, all entangled and intertwined, you can't, like, understand. Not because it's what you're trying to solve the case from the top? Gathered something important to do - better start with some nonsense. Nothing, that everyone is visible and clear. And be sure topcis like to be around him.

The reality is like multiple layers. <...> It all depends on which reality you and me.

- Tell me, doctor, are you afraid of death?
- I guess it depends on how to die.

... Sometimes we had to meet. However, accompanying the meeting, the exchange of phrases was not a conversation. We... haven't had common interests. So no matter how many words we uttered, conversations of this still did not work. It's like that to speak two different languages. If the Dalai Lama were on his deathbed, and Eric Dolphy explained to him the significance of the changing colours of the bass clarinet when you choose oil for car, effect and that it would probably be more than my conversations with Noboru Wataya.

Sometimes it is necessary to let the feelings out. Otherwise they stagnate. Here you spoke, and, right, feel better?

Memory and thoughts grow old just like people.

Nothing is more exhausting person as senseless and worthless efforts.

Amazing what a little change of mood affects the tones of the human voice.

How wonderful it is to reach out, to touch and to feel someone's warmth. How long, without knowing it, I lived without these feelings.

In an old Russian novel letters burned on a winter evening, in the oven. But that summer, in the morning, in the garden, but still pouring with vegetable oil, - this was not. But in our harsh reality, a person early in the morning can easily sweat, burn the letter. Sometimes, no choice, and wait for the winter impossible.