Best 31 quotes in «kafka on the shore quotes» category

I know. It's easy to forget things you don't need anymore.” Excerpt From: Haruki Murakami. “Kafka on the Shore.” iBooks.

If only I could wipe out this me who's here, right here and right now. I seriously consider it. In this thick wall of trees, on this path that's not a path, if I stopped breathing, my consciousness would silently be buried in the darkness, every last drop of my dark violent blood dripping out, my DNA rotting among the weeds. Then my battle would be over. Otherwise, I'll eternally be murdering my father, violating my mother, violating my sister, lashing out at the world forever. I close my eyes and try to find my center.

In traveling, a companion, in life, compassion....So what does that really mean? In simple terms." "I think it means...that chance encounters are what keep us going. In simple terms.

In the depths of our crater lake, everything is silent. The volcano's been extinct for ages. Layer upon layer of solitude, like folds of soft mud. The little bit of light that manages to penetrate to the depths lights up the surroundings like the remains of some faint, distant memory. At these depths there's no sign of life. I don't know how long she looks at me—not at me, maybe, but at the spot where I am. Time's rules don't apply here.

I'm alone inside the world of the story, my favorite feeling in the world.

It's all a question of imagination. Our responsibility begins with the power to imagine. It's just as Yeats said: "In dreams begin responsibility. Turn this on its head and you could say that where there's no power to imagine, no responsibility can arise." [...] Just like Adolf Eichmann caught up in the twisted dreams of a man named Hitler. - Oshima

It's all a question of imagination. Our responsibility begins with the power to imagine. It's just as Yeats said: In dreams begin responsibility. Turn on this on its head and you could say that where there's no power to imagine, no responsibility can arise. Just as we see with Eichmann.

Setiap orang merasakan sakit dengan caranya sendiri, setiap orang menyimpan lukanya sendiri. Jadi aku rasa, aku juga peduli dengan ketidakadilan dan keadilan seperti orang lain. Tapi yang paling menjijikkan bagiku adalah orang-orang yang tidak memiliki imajinasi. Orang-orang yang disebut orang-orang palsu oleh T.S Eliot. Orang-orang yang mengisi kurangnya imajinasi dengan hal-hal yang tidak berperasaan, orang-orang yang sama sekali tidak menyadari apa yang mereka lakukan. Orang-orang tidak berperasaan yang melontarkan kata-kata kosong kepadamu, yang mencoba memaksamu melakukan sesuatu yang tidak kau inginkan.

Ništa se neće promijeniti ako žmirite. Ništa neće nestati samo zato što vi ne vidite šta se zbiva. Zapravo, bit će još gore kada otvorite oči.

It's not just that I'm dumb. Nakata's empty inside. I finally understand that. Nakata's like a library without a single book. It wasn't always like that. I used to have books inside me. For a long time I couldn't remember, but now I can. I used to be normal, just like everybody else. But something happened and I ended up like a container with nothing inside.

People soon get tired of things that aren't boring, but not of what is boring. Go figure. For me, I might have the leisure to be bored, but not to grow tired of something. Most people can't distinguish between the two.

Time weighs down on you like an old, ambiguous dream. You keep on moving, trying to slip through it. But even if you go to the ends of the earth, you won’t be able to escape it. Still, you have to go there - to the edge of the world. There’s something you can’t do unless you get there.

She hesitates for a moment, then lowers my boxers, pulls out my rock-hard cock, and cradles it gently in her hand. Like she's making sure of something, the way a doctor takes a pulse. With her soft hand touching me, I feel something--a stray thought, maybe--spring up in my crotch.

The trucker was a beefy man in his mid-forties, with arms like logs and a jutting belly, who was hauling fresh fish in a refrigerated truck. "I hope you don't mind the fish smell," the driver said. "Fish are one of Nakata's favorites," Nakata replied. The driver laughed. "You're a strange one, aren't you." "People tell me that sometimes." "I happen to like the strange ones," the driver said. "People who look normal and live a normal life - they're the ones you have to watch out for." "Is that so?" "Believe me, that's how it goes. In my opinion, anyway." "Nakata doesn't have may opinions. Though I do like eel." "Well, that's an opinion. That you like eel." "Eel is an opinion?" "Sure, saying you like eel's an opinion." Thus the two of them drove to Fujigawa.

Time weighs down on you like an old, ambiguous dream. You keep on moving, trying to slip through it. But even if you go to the ends of the earth, you won't be able to escape it. Still, you have to go there—to the edge of the world. There's something you can't do unless you get there.

She looks like a symbol of something. A certain time, a certain place. A certain state of mind. She's like a spirit that's sprung up from a happy chance encounter. An eternal, naive innocence, never to be marred, floats around her like spores in spring.

Things change every day, Mr Nakata. With each new dawn it's not the same world as the day before. And you're not the same person you were, either.

Time weighs down on you like an old, ambiguous dream. You keep on moving, trying to slip through it. But even if you go to the ends of the earth, you won't be able to escape it. Still, you have to go there—to the edge of the world. There's something you can't do unless you get there.” Excerpt From: Haruki Murakami. “Kafka on the Shore.” iBooks.

But thing in the past are like plate that’s shattered to pieces. You can never put it back together like it was, right?

You're you, you see, and nobody else. You are you, right?

A dense, artistic kind of imperfection stimulates your consciousness, keeps you alert. If I listen to some utterly perfect performance of an utterly perfect piece while I'm driving, I might want to close my eyes and die right then and there. But listening to the D major, I can feel the limits of what humans are capable of-- that a certain type of perfection can only be realised through a limitless accumulation of imperfect.

All kinds of things are happening to me. Some I chose, some I didn't. I don't know how to tell one from the other anymore. What I mean is, it feels like everything's been decided in advance - that I'm following a path somebody else has already mapped out for me. It doesn't matter how much I think things over, how much effort I put into it. In fact, the harder I try, the more I lose my sense of who I am. It's like my identity's an orbit that I've strayed far away from, and that really hurts. But more than that, it scares me. Just thinking about it makes me flinch.

A question wells up inside me, a question so big it blocks my throat and makes it hard to breathe. Somehow I swallow it back, finally choosing another. "Are memories such an important thing?" "It depends," she replies, and closes her eyes. "In some cases, they're the most important thing there is.

But metaphors can reduce the distance." "We're not metaphors." "I know, but metaphors eliminates what separates you and me.

Why does loving somebody mean you have to hurt them just as much? I mean if that’s the way it goes, what’s the point of loving someone? Why the hell does it have to be like that?

You sit at the edge of the world, I am in a crater that's no more.   Words without letters   Standing in the shadow of the door.   The moon shines down on a sleeping lizard, Little fish rain down from the sky.   Outside the window there are soldiers, steeling themselves to die.   (Refrain)   Kafka sits in a chair by the shore, Thinking of the pendulum that moves the world, it seems.   When your heart is closed, The shadow of the unmoving Sphinx, Becomes a knife that pierces your dreams.   The drowning girl's fingers   Search for the entrance stone, and more.   Lifting the hem of her azure dress, She gazes—at Kafka on the shore.

Closing your eyes isn’t going to change anything. Nothing’s going to disappear just because you can’t see what’s going on…. Keep your eyes wide open. Only a coward closes his eyes.

Every single day, each time I see her face, see her, it's utterly precious.

...dirty dishes out to the kitchen and starts washing them. I watch her do all this. I want to say something, but when I'm with her words no longer function as they're supposed to. Or maybe the meaning that ties them together has vanished? I stare at my hands and think of the dogwood outside the window, glinting in the moonlight. That's where the blade that's stabbing me in the heart is.   "Will I see you again?" I ask.

Far away a crow caws. The earth slowly keeps on turning. But beyond any of those details there are dreams. And everyone´s living in them.

For better or for worse, I don't have that kind of power. If I sound as if I'm always predicting ominous things, it's because I'm a pragmatist. I use deductive reasoning to generalise, and I suppose this sometimes ends up sounding like unlucky prophecies. You know why? Because reality's just the accumulation of ominous prophecies come to life.