murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

nails being driven into the lid of her coffin, but I still couldn't adjust to
the fact that she had returned to nothingness.
No, the image of her was still too vivid in my memory. I could still
see her enclosing my penis in her mouth, her hair falling across my
belly. I could still feel her warmth, her breath against me, and that
helpless moment when I could do nothing but come. I could bring all
this back as clearly as if it had happened only five minutes ago, and I
felt sure that Naoko was still beside me, that I could just reach out and
touch her. But no, she wasn't there; her flesh no longer existed in this
world.
Nights when it was impossible for me to sleep, images of Naoko
would come back to me. There was no way I could stop them. Too
many memories of her were crammed inside me, and as soon as one of
them found the slightest opening, the rest would force their way out in
an endless stream, an unstoppable flood: Naoko in her yellow raincape
cleaning the aviary and carrying the feed bag that rainy morning; the
caved-in birthday cake and the feel of Naoko's tears soaking through
my shirt (yes, it had been raining then, too); Naoko walking beside me
in winter wearing her camel-hair coat; Naoko touching the hairslide
she always wore; Naoko peering at me with those incredibly clear
eyes of hers; Naoko sitting on the sofa, legs drawn up beneath her blue
nightdress, chin resting on her knees.
The memories would slam against me like the waves of an incoming
tide, sweeping my body along to some strange new place - a place
where I lived with the dead. There Naoko lived, and I could speak
with her and hold her in my arms. Death in that place was not a
decisive element that brought life to an end. There, death was but one
of many elements comprising life. There Naoko lived with death
inside her. And to me she said, "Don't worry, it's only death. Don't let
it bother you."
I felt no sadness in that strange place. Death was death, and Naoko
was Naoko. "What's the problem?" she asked me with a bashful smile,
326