Erika stared at the candle flame flickering in the breeze from the A.C. "I often have the same dream," she said. "Aki-kun and I are on a ship. A long journey on a large ship. We're together in a small cabin, it's late at night, and through the porthole we can see the full moon. But that moon is made of pure, transparent ice. And the bottom half of it is sunk in the sea. 'That looks like the moon," Aki-kun tells me, 'but it's really made of ice and is only about eight inches thick. So when the sun comes out in the morning it all melts. You should get a good look at it now, while you have the chance.' I've had this dream so many times. It's a beautiful dream. Always the same moon. Always eight inches thick. I'm leaning against Aki-kun, it's just the two of us, the waves lapping gently outside. But every time I wake up I feel unbearable sad."
"YesterdayIs two days before tomorrow,The day after two days ago."
When I finish a piece by Haruki Murakami I can envision the setting. I can feel the mood. I feel like I've been introduced properly to the characters. His writing makes the smallest detail seem incredibly important. But I can't always say that I understand what he's writing about. I look for a theme, or a lesson, or even a significant point, and I feel a bit lost. To me, Yesterday speaks ultimately about the brevity of our lives, the melting of what's important, and the sadness inherent in every relationship.
What I do understand is how his characters feel. His description of them resonates with me in such a way that it feels as if he's describing my own heart. My own life:
"I couldn't speak. Not being able to find the right words at crucial times is one of my many problems."
And:
"Brooding over how things had turned out--after everything had already been decided--was another of my chronic problems."
Thanks to Mookse and The Gripes for the heads up about the appearance of Haruki Murakami's short story. You can read Yesterday in The New Yorker here.
