Archives for category: Words

bq_leftNo writer who knows the great writers who did not receive the Prize can accept it other than with humility. There is no need to list these writers. Everyone here may make his own list according to his knowledge and his conscience.

It would be impossible for me to ask the Ambassador of my country to read a speech in which a writer said all of the things which are in his heart. Things may not be immediately discernible in what a man writes, and in this sometimes he is fortunate; but eventually they are quite clear and by these and the degree of alchemy that he possesses he will endure or be forgotten.

Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.

For a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try for something that has never been done or that others have tried and failed. Then sometimes, with good luck, he will succeed.

How simple the writing of literature would be if it were only necessary to write in another way what has been well written. It is because we have had such great writers in the past that a writer is driven far out past where he can go, out to where no one can help him.

I have spoken too long for a writer. A writer should write what he has to say and not speak it. Again I thank you.bq_right

From this Wired article, where you will also find an audio recording of Ernest Hemingway giving the above speech.

bq_leftMemory is a snare, pure and simple; it alters, it subtly rearranges the past to fit the present.bq_right

―Mario Vargas Llosa

bq_leftHe smiled understandingly — much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced — or seemed to face — the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.bq_right

—The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald

bq_leftImagine this. You’re a farmer, living all alone on the Siberian tundra. Day after day you plow your fields. As far as the eye can see, nothing. To the north, the horizon, to the east, the horizon, to the south, to the west, more of the same. Every morning, when the sun rises in the east, you go out to work in your fields. When it’s directly overhead, you take a break for lunch. When it sinks in the west, you go home to sleep.

And then one day, something inside you dies. Day after day you watch the sun rise in the east, pass across the sky, then sink in the west, and something breaks inside you and dies. You toss your plow aside and, your head completely empty of thought, begin walking toward the west. Heading toward a land that lies west of the sun. Like someone possessed, you walk on, day after day, not eating or drinking, until you collapse on the ground and die. That’s hysteria siberiana.bq_right

—Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun

bq_leftFew men have the natural strength to honour a friend’s success without envy.bq_right

—Aeschylus, playwright and soldier, c. 525 BC—c. 456 BC

After a stripped-down unplugged set, the concert swung into a boisterous third set. Members in the audience in the pit front of house were on their feet, clapping and singing along.

Just as I was expecting another fast number, the lights went down and the rest of the band retreated into the shadows. Koji Tamaki, in white suit and pants, stood alone and sang this ballad almost without any accompaniment. The lyrics to the song appeared on the two overhead screens. To his soaring vocals I read the words, words of regret, of loss, of memories.

I had goosebumps and a lump in my throat the whole time.

After the concert, I searched for the song and listened to it again. But the raw emotions and the intimacy, like the moments about which the song was written, were forever gone, meant to be lived just once.


安全地帯

作詞/作曲:玉置浩二

元気?

愛しているんだよ もう戻れないけど
あれは初めての恋だった 募る想い
遠い遠い昔 青春の日々
あの日震えてる君の手を 握りしめただけで

大切な人になると思った
何ものにも変えられない

世界中で一番大事なものなんだって
わかったんだ わかってたんだ

会えば嬉しくて ギュッと抱きしめた
雨の午後は人恋しくて 求めあったふたりは

もう少しそうしてたかったのに
どちらからともなく離れた

なんにも伝えらんなくて 雨が降り止まなくて
いっしょに いたいだけなのに

今でも 今でも
思い出すだけで 切なくて
胸が張り裂けそうで
ほんとに ほんとに
世界中で一番 君が 君が 好きだったって
わかったんだ わかってたんだ
ずっと ずっと

愛しているんだよ
もう遅いけれど
あれは最初で最後の夜
眠ってる君に
残した 「I love you」

bq_leftA young man takes three journeys, through Greece, India and Africa. He travels lightly, simply. To those who travel with him and those whom he meets on the way – including a handsome, enigmatic stranger, a group of careless backpackers and a woman on the edge – he is the Follower, the Lover and the Guardian. Yet, despite the man’s best intentions, each journey ends in disaster. Together, these three journeys will change his whole life.

A novel of longing and thwarted desire, rage and compassion, “In a Strange Room” is the hauntingly beautiful evocation of one man’s search for love, and a place to call home.bq_right

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