I have questions for you that you may not be able to answer. I seek
answers for which you may not have the capacity or the time to explain
and help me understand. Despite all these constraints, I have decided
that I must ask. I must ask because I cannot withhold what I feel
anymore. It is perhaps equivalent to the boiling over of milk in a
pan. Except that your books have left me with so much perspective that
sometimes I think I am the pan, not the milk that is boiling over. And
some other times, I think I am the fire. And certain times ( which are
far and few in between) I believe I'm all three.
Firstly, what is it that you infuse your books with that my hands ache
for them not unlike the longing in the eyes of a man on the
battlefield, missing his lover, on a clear moonlit night?
What is it that you ferment your words with that draw me to your
books, eyes wide open, a silly lopsided smile pasted across my face
not much different from the awestruck flies that swim around the gas
Where did you learn to weave stories out of nothingness? How do you
write something so astonishingly simple that it echoes all the way to
the nether worlds?
All your readers, captured in a trance, beseech you with this very
question : when did you learn to hypnotise the words to do your
bidding so gracefully?
What stanzas have you been singing to them to make them dance to your tunes?
Tell me. Tell me all your secrets. Tell me how to write tales that
feed my reader sumptuous lyrics, tales that tease, tales which seduce,
tales which befuddled, tales which depress, tales which kill you
slowly on the inside like sweet poison.
From what bare thread should I begin to construct my tapestry of
words? How do I grow and expand my words to fit in this world so that
my stories can taste eternity?
My pen withers at the sight of your name. For you seem to have written
about things which could never be written about as they were deemed far too
mundane. You seem to have had thoughts that manifested once upon a
time in our young minds as dreams.
What are we to do with so much beauty trapped in these pages of your books?
When we pick up your books, we bare our hearts to you. We clench our
teeth and dive in head first. We allow the sharp, cold pain of your
story to numb our spines and cloud our eyes.
And once familiarity is bred, we keep coming back for more. We keep
coming back to grasp how magically the lightest of your words weigh
the heaviest inside of our hearts.
I could go on forever but for now the Norwegian Woods call me and the
woods are dark and deep, with miles to go before I sleep. But I do
live in the hope that someday, any day, my Sputnik Sweetheart and I
can live on an island reading Kafka on a hammock, By the Shore.
Every Murakami fan ever.