Reading Haruki Murakami's First Person Singular

 

I am about halfway through Murakam's recent story collection First Person Singular. Thus far, my favorite story is the second one, "On A Stone Pillow." Here is a section I liked:

Tanka were basically a mystery to me (and still are, even now). So I'm certainly not able to venture an objective opinion about which tanka are considered great, and which ones not so much. But apart from any judgements of literary value, several of the tanka she wrote -- eight of them, specifically -- struck a chord deep within me.

This one, for instance:

The present moment

if it is the present moment

can only be taken 

as the inescapable present

In the mountain wind

a head cut off

without a word

June water at the roots of a hydrangea (pp. 44 - 45)

Murakami ends the story this way:

Aside from me, there's not another soul in this world who remembers that girl's poems, let alone someone who can recite them. With the exception of number 28, that slim little self-published book, bound together with string, is now forgotten, dispensed, sucked up somewhere into the benighted darkness between Jupiter and Saturn, vanished forever. Perhaps she herself (assuming she's still alive) can't recall a thing about those poems she wrote back when she was young. Maybe the only reason I recall some of her poetry even now is because it's linked to memories of her teeth marks on that towel. Maybe that's all it is. I don't know how much meaning or value there is in still remembering all that, in sometimes pulling out that faded copy of the poetry collection from my drawer and reading it again. To tell the truth, I really don't know.

At any rate, those remained. While other words and memories turned to dust and vanished.

Whether you cut it off

 or someone else cuts it off 

if you put your neck on the stone pillow

believe it -- you will turn to dust (pp 48 - 49)