"Dance Dance Dance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Murakami Haruki)
Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance
Haruki
Murakami
Dance Dance Dance
I wake up, but where? I don't
just think this, I actually voice the question to myself: “Where am I?” As if I
didn't know: I'm here. In my life. A feature in the world that is my existence.
Not that I particularly recall ever having approved these matters, this
condition, this state of affairs in which I feature. There might be a woman
sleeping next to me. More often, I'm alone. Just me and the expressway that runs
right next to my apartment and, bedside, a glass (five millimeters of whiskey
still in it) and the malicious – no, make that indifferent – dusty morning
light. Sometimes its raining. If it is, I'll just stay in bed. And if there's
whiskey still left in the glass, I'll drink it. And I'll look at the raindrops
dripping from the eaves, and I'll think about the Dolphin Hotel. Maybe I'll
stretch, nice and slow. Enough for me to be sure I'm myself and not part of
something else. Yet I'll remember the feel of the dream. So much that I swear I
can reach out and touch it, and the whole of that something that includes
me will move. If I strain my ears, I can hear the slow, cautious sequence of
play take place, like droplets in an intricate water puzzle falling, step upon
step, one after the other. I listen carefully. That's when I hear someone
softly, almost imperceptibly, weeping. A sobbing from someone in the darkness.
Someone is crying for me.
[...]
Gazing at the rain, I
consider what it means to belong, to become part of something. To have someone
cry for me. From someplace distant, so very distant. From, ultimately, a dream.
No matter how far I reach out, no matter how fast I run, I'll never make
it.
Why would
anyone want to cry for me?
"Tendencies.
Yougottendencies. Soevenifyoudideverythingoveragain, yourwholelife,
yougottendenciestodojustwhatyoudid, alloveragain."
"Yes, but where does
that leave me?"
"Likewesaid,
we'lldowhatwecan. Trytoreconnectyou, towhatyouwant," said the Sheep Man.
"Butwecan'tdoitalone. Yougottaworktoo. Sitting'snotgonnadoit,
thinking'snotgonnadoit."
"So what do I have to
do?"
"Dance," said the Sheep
Man. "Yougottadance. Aslongasthemusicplays. Yougottadance. Don'teventhinkwhy.
Starttothink, yourfeetstop. Yourfeetstop, wegetstuck. Wegetstuck, you'restuck.
Sodon'tpayanymind, nomatterhowdumb. Yougottakeepthestep. Yougottalimberup.
Yougottaloosenwhatyoubolteddown. Yougottauseallyougot. Weknowyou'retired,
tiredandscared. Happenstoeveryone, okay?
Justdon'tletyourfeetstop."
[...]
"I don't get
it."
"Dance," he said.
"It'stheonlyway. Wishwecouldexplainthingsbetter. Butwetoldyouallwecould. Dance.
Don'tthink. Dance. Danceyourbest, likeyourlifedependedonit.
Yougottadance."
The temperature was
falling. I suddenly seemed to remember this chill. A bone-piercing, damp chill.
Long ago and far away. But where? My mind was paralyzed. Fixed and
rigid.
Fixed and
rigid.
"Youbettergo," urged the
Sheep Man. "Stayhere, you'llfreeze. Butifyouneedus, we'rehere.
Youknowwheretofindus."
Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance
Haruki
Murakami
Dance Dance Dance
I wake up, but where? I don't
just think this, I actually voice the question to myself: “Where am I?” As if I
didn't know: I'm here. In my life. A feature in the world that is my existence.
Not that I particularly recall ever having approved these matters, this
condition, this state of affairs in which I feature. There might be a woman
sleeping next to me. More often, I'm alone. Just me and the expressway that runs
right next to my apartment and, bedside, a glass (five millimeters of whiskey
still in it) and the malicious – no, make that indifferent – dusty morning
light. Sometimes its raining. If it is, I'll just stay in bed. And if there's
whiskey still left in the glass, I'll drink it. And I'll look at the raindrops
dripping from the eaves, and I'll think about the Dolphin Hotel. Maybe I'll
stretch, nice and slow. Enough for me to be sure I'm myself and not part of
something else. Yet I'll remember the feel of the dream. So much that I swear I
can reach out and touch it, and the whole of that something that includes
me will move. If I strain my ears, I can hear the slow, cautious sequence of
play take place, like droplets in an intricate water puzzle falling, step upon
step, one after the other. I listen carefully. That's when I hear someone
softly, almost imperceptibly, weeping. A sobbing from someone in the darkness.
Someone is crying for me.
[...]
Gazing at the rain, I
consider what it means to belong, to become part of something. To have someone
cry for me. From someplace distant, so very distant. From, ultimately, a dream.
No matter how far I reach out, no matter how fast I run, I'll never make
it.
Why would
anyone want to cry for me?
"Tendencies.
Yougottendencies. Soevenifyoudideverythingoveragain, yourwholelife,
yougottendenciestodojustwhatyoudid, alloveragain."
"Yes, but where does
that leave me?"
"Likewesaid,
we'lldowhatwecan. Trytoreconnectyou, towhatyouwant," said the Sheep Man.
"Butwecan'tdoitalone. Yougottaworktoo. Sitting'snotgonnadoit,
thinking'snotgonnadoit."
"So what do I have to
do?"
"Dance," said the Sheep
Man. "Yougottadance. Aslongasthemusicplays. Yougottadance. Don'teventhinkwhy.
Starttothink, yourfeetstop. Yourfeetstop, wegetstuck. Wegetstuck, you'restuck.
Sodon'tpayanymind, nomatterhowdumb. Yougottakeepthestep. Yougottalimberup.
Yougottaloosenwhatyoubolteddown. Yougottauseallyougot. Weknowyou'retired,
tiredandscared. Happenstoeveryone, okay?
Justdon'tletyourfeetstop."
[...]
"I don't get
it."
"Dance," he said.
"It'stheonlyway. Wishwecouldexplainthingsbetter. Butwetoldyouallwecould. Dance.
Don'tthink. Dance. Danceyourbest, likeyourlifedependedonit.
Yougottadance."
The temperature was
falling. I suddenly seemed to remember this chill. A bone-piercing, damp chill.
Long ago and far away. But where? My mind was paralyzed. Fixed and
rigid.
Fixed and
rigid.
"Youbettergo," urged the
Sheep Man. "Stayhere, you'llfreeze. Butifyouneedus, we'rehere.
Youknowwheretofindus."
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