murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

the works of Tennessee Williams and their place in American
literature), and when it was over, I did a long count to three and turned
around. Midori was gone.
April was too lonely a month to spend all alone. In April, everyone
around me looked happy. People would throw off their coats and
enjoy each other's company in the sunshine - talking, playing catch,
holding hands. But I was always by myself. Naoko, Midori,
Nagasawa: all of them had gone away from where I stood. Now I had
no one to say "Good morning" to or "Have a nice day". I even missed
Storm Trooper. I spent the whole month with this hopeless sense of
isolation. I tried to speak to Midori a few times, but the answer I got
from her was always the same: "I don't want to talk to you now" - and
I knew from the tone of her voice that she meant it. She was always
with the girl with glasses, or else I saw her with a tall, short-haired
guy. He had these incredibly long legs and always wore white
basketball shoes.
April ended and May came along, but May was even worse than
April. In the deepening spring of May, I had no choice but to
recognize the trembling of my heart. It usually happened as the sun
was going down. In the pale evening gloom, when the soft fragrance
of magnolias hung in the air, my heart would swell without warning,
and tremble, and lurch with a stab of pain. I would try clamping my
eyes shut and gritting my teeth, and wait for it to pass. And it would
pass - but slowly, taking its own time, and leaving a dull ache in its
path.
At those times I would write to Naoko. In my letters to her, I would
describe only things that were touching or pleasant or beautiful: the
fragrance of grasses, the caress of a spring breeze, the light of the
moon, a film I'd seen, a song I liked, a book that had moved me. I
myself would be comforted by
letters like this when I would reread what I had written. And I would
feel that the world I lived in was a wonderful one. I wrote any number
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