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murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

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stories: something strange, warped even. Each tale had its own<br />

internal logic, but the link from one to the next was odd. Before you<br />

knew it, story A had turned into story B, which had been contained in<br />

A, and then came C from something in B, with no end in sight. I found<br />

things to say in response at first, but after a while I stopped trying. I<br />

put on a record, and when it ended I lifted the needle and put on<br />

another. After the last record I went back to the first. She only had six.<br />

The cycle started with Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and<br />

ended with Bill Evans' Waltz for Debbie. Rain fell past the window.<br />

Time moved slowly. Naoko went on talking by herself.<br />

It eventually dawned on me what was wrong: Naoko was taking great<br />

care as she spoke not to touch on certain things. One of those things<br />

was Kizuki, of course, but there was more than Kizuki. And though<br />

she had certain subjects she was determined to avoid, she went on<br />

endlessly and in incredible detail about the most trivial, inane things. I<br />

had never heard her speak with such intensity before, and so I did not<br />

interrupt her.<br />

Once the clock struck eleven, though, I began to feel nervous. She had<br />

been talking non-stop for more than four hours. I had to worry about<br />

the last train, and my midnight curfew. I saw my chance and cut in.<br />

"Time for the troops to go home," I said, looking at my watch. "Last<br />

train's coming."<br />

My words did not seem to reach her. Or, if they did, she was unable to<br />

grasp their meaning. She clamped her mouth shut for a split second,<br />

then went on with her story. I gave up and, shifting to a more<br />

comfortable position, drank what was left of the second bottle of wine.<br />

I thought I had better let her talk herself out. The curfew and the last<br />

train would have to take care of themselves.<br />

She did not go on for long, though. Before I knew it, she had stopped<br />

talking. The ragged end of the last word she spoke seemed to float in<br />

the air, where it had been torn off. She had not actually finished what<br />

she was saying. Her words had simply evaporated. She had been<br />

47

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