LIGHT SLEEPERS

Once, long ago when I was still young, when the memories were far more vivid then they are now, I often tried to write about her. But I couldn`t produce a line. I knew that if the first line would come, the rest would pour itself onto the page, but I could never make it happen. Everything was too sharp and clear, so that I could never tell where to start- the way a map that shows too much can sometimes be useless. Now, though, I realize that all I can place in the imperfect vessel of writing are imperfect memories and imperfect thoughts. The more the memories of Naoko inside me fade, the more deeply I am able to understand her. I know, too, why she asked me not to forget her. Naoko herself knew, of course. She knew that my memories of her would fade. Which is precisely why she begged me never to forget her, to remember that she had existed. The thought fills me with an almost unbearable sorrow.

Because Naoko never loved me.    

                                                                          Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

A snapshot from the movie Norwegian Wood by Anh Dung Tran

Jednom davno, dok sam još bio mlad, kad su sjećanja bila mnogo življa nego što su sada, pokušavao sam pisati o njoj. Ali nisam mogao napisati ni retka. Znao sam, kad bi došao taj prvi redak, ostatak bi sam potekao na papir, ali nisam uspijevao. Sve je bilo odviše oštro i jasno, pa nikad nisam znao odakle početi- kao što karta koja ima previše detalja zna biti beskorisna. Ali sada shvaćam da sve što mogu povjeriti nesavršenu mediju pisanja jesu nesavršena sjećanja i nesavršene misli. Kako sjećanja na Naoko u meni sve više blijede, sve je dublje razumijem. Znam i zašto je od mene tražila da je ne zaboravim. To je, naravno, znala i Naoko. Znala je da će moja sjećanja na nju izblijedjeti. Upravo me zato i molila da je nikada ne zaboravim, da se sjećam kako je postojala. Ta me pomisao ispunjava gotovo neizdrživom tugom. Jer Naoko me nikada nije voljela.   

                                                                                                Haruki Murakami, Norveška šuma

Memories can be pretty tricky things. They usually catch you off guard. Sometimes you can hardly tell who they are working for: God or the Devil?

These light sleepers are so easy to wake up. For Proust, it was a cookie…

For Murakami, a Beatles song heard on the seat of an airplane…

What makes your memories awake?