Haruki Murakami - Hear the Wind Sing

Hear the Wind Sing

by Haruki Murakami

Theres no such thing as perfect writing. Just like theres no such thing as perfect despair.

A writer I happened to meet when I was in college told me this. It was a long time before I finally understood what those words meant, but just knowing them was a kind of comfort that put me at ease. Theres no such thing as a perfect writing style. However, in spite of that, the thought of actually writing something always filled me with a sense of hopelessness, because the things I was able to write about were fairly limited. For example, if I were to write about elephants, Id have had no idea what words to use. Thats what it was like.

I struggled on with this dilemma for eight years. Eight yearsthats a long time.

Of course, theres a limit to how much you can try to learn about things, but its not as painful as being old. At least, thats what they say.

From the time I turned twenty, I strived to live my life this way. Thanks to this, I took painful blows from others, I was deceived, misunderstood, and I also had many strange adventures. Lots of people came around to tell me their stories, and their words flew over my head as if crossing a bridge, and they never came back. During that time, Id keep my mouth shut, not telling anybody anything. And thats how I came to the end of my twenties.

Now, I think Ill tell a story.

Of course, theres not a single solution to the problem, and once the storys over, things will probably still be just as they were. In the end, writing a story isnt a means of self-therapy, its nothing more than a meager attempt at self-therapy.

But, telling a story honestly is extremely difficult. As much as I try to be honest, the words Im looking for always seem to sink into dark depths.

Im not trying to make excuses. At least what Im writing here is the best I can do. Theres nothing else to say. Still, heres what Im thinking: way before youre good at it, maybe years or decades before youre good at it, you can save yourself, I think. And when you do, the elephant back on the plains will be able to tell his story with words more beautiful than your own.

* * *

I learned a lot about writing from Derek Hartfield. Almost everything, I should say. Unfortunately, Derek Hartfield himself was the embodiment of a

simple writer. If you read his work, youll understand what I mean. His writing was hard to read, his plots were haphazard, and his themes were childish. However, in spite of all that, among the few extraordinary writers who brandished their writing as a weapon, he was unique. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, the other writers of his time, even compared to them, the militancy of his writing has never wavered, in my opinion. Unfortunately, even at the very end, Hartfield could never get a clear grasp of the shape of his own enemy. When it was all said and done, it was a very simple affair indeed.

Eight years and two months, that was how long his own simple battle lasted, and then he died. In June of 1938, on a sunny Sunday morning, clutching a portrait of Hitler with his right hand and an open umbrella in his left, he jumped off the roof of the Empire State Building. The singular manner of his life, nor that of his death, ever became a subject of great intrigue.

I had the good fortune to receive a copy of Hartfields already out-of-print first novel during the summer vacation of my third year of middle school, while I was laid up with a skin disease that had taken over my crotch. The uncle whod given me that book came down with bowel cancer three years later, had his body cut into ribbons from head to toe, and with plastic tubes jammed into his bodily entrances and exits, died upon their painful removal. The last time I saw him, his shriveled up, reddish-brown features had contracted severely, his body resembling that of a sly monkey.

* * *

In all, I had three uncles, but one of them died in a suburb of Shanghai. Two days after the war ended, he stepped on one of the land mines hed buried himself. The third uncle, the sole survivor, became a magician and went around touring all of Japans hot springs.

* * *

On the subject of good writing, Hartfield said something that went like this:

The writer who writes literature, that is to say the writer who ensconces himself in his work, always checks his distance. The important thing isnt what he perceives, its the ruler he uses. -If it Feels Good, Whats the Problem?, 1936

I stared at the ruler I held timidly in my hand the year Kennedy died, and from then it was fifteen years later. In those fifteen years Id found that Id really given up a lot. Like an airplane with an engine on the fritz, expelling luggage, seats, then finally the sorry stewardesses, in those fifteen years I discarded every possible thing, but Id gained almost nothing in the way of wisdom.

As a result of that, and I dont know if Im right about this or not, Ive lost all my convictions. Even if it makes things easier, my worst fear is that when I get old and Im facing death Ill wonder what the hell Ive got to show for any of it. After Im cremated, I doubt even a single bone will remain.

People with dark souls have nothing but dark dreams. People with really dark souls do nothing but dream, went a favorite saying of my late

grandmother.

The night she died, the very first thing I did was to reach my arms out and softly close her eyes. As I did this, the dream shed held for seventy-nine years ended the way a summer shower stops falling on pavement, and after that there was nothing left.

* * *

Ill write about writing once more. This is the last thing I have to say about it.

For me, writing is a terribly painful process. Sometimes I spend a month unable to write a single line, other times, after writing for three straight days and nights I realize everything Ive written is all wrong.

Nevertheless, in spite of all that, writing is also a fun process. Compared to the difficulties of living, with writing its a lot easier to find meaning. Maybe it was in my teens when this fact finally hit me, and I was surprised enough to be dumbfounded for a week. If I could lighten up just a little, the world would move according to my whims, the value of everything would change, the flow of time would be alteredthats how I felt.

The problem with that, as I realized, would come much later. I drew a line in the middle of a piece of notebook paper, filling up the left side with things Id gained, and in the right side listing things Id lost. The things Id lost, trampled to pieces, things Id given up on long before, things Id sacrificed, things Id betrayedin the end I just wasnt able to cross these out and cut my losses.

The things we try our hardest not to lose, we really just put create deep abysses in the spaces between them. No matter how long your ruler is, its an immeasurable depth. The most I can do in writing it down is merely to make a list. Not even with short stories or literature, not even through the arts. Just a notebook with a line drawn down the middle of its first page. There might be some kind of a small lesson in this.

If youre looking for fine art or literature, you might want to read some stuff written by the Greeks. Because to create true fine art, slaves are a necessity. Thats how the ancient Greeks felt, with slaves working the fields, cooking their meals, rowing their ships, all the while their citizens, under the Mediterranean Sun, indulged in poetry writing and grappled with mathematics. That was their idea of fine art.

Those people digging around in the refrigerator at 3am, those are the only people I can write for. And that, is me.

This story begins on August 8th, 1970, and lasts for eighteen days, meaning it finishes on August 26th of that same year.