The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, by Haruki Murakami
There’s only one thing I remember from The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and it’s this:
Sometimes you have to sit back, shut up, and let life lead you to where you need to be.
I am still so flabbergasted by the suggestion of conscience passivity, that I’ve hardly processed it. I know I’m lured by its proximity to surrender, and yet I balk at the power it relinquishes to fate, or destiny.
Everything is connected, in stranger ways than we can fathom. Like a mathematician, there are people who see patterns where we see the morning coffee, a neighbor’s dog, a dying relationship. More importantly, the patterns are there, and unlike math, they’re not bound by time or space in the way we know it.
Stay silent and listen for it, or keep imposing our will on a pre-existing structure?
It’s the American in me that is so resistant to relinquishing control, or is it the Jewish sense of duty? The call to pursue justice and make a difference. Interesting how in that, the impulses are alike. Move. Control. Do. Fix.
I’ll be honest. That’s the part that’s broken in me, and that’s why I’m afraid of surrender. Because it feels so good.
My review on another Murakami book provides some description of his style.