Whatever one thinks of him, Murakami writes as vividly- often as movingly- on the isolation of love as any living author I can think of.
Sometimes when I look at you, I feel I’m gazing at a distant star.
It’s dazzling, but the light is from tens of thousands of years ago.
Maybe the star doesn’t even exist any more. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything.
But I didn’t understand then. That I could hurt somebody so badly she would never recover. That a person can, just by living, damage another human being beyond repair.
Maybe I just cannot even bear such things being written down.