Haruki Murakami | Norwegian Wood | 1987

Toru,

Where did you go? You were so whole--once. Even when Naoko died, you were whole. Even when you called Midori and realized that you were so very, very alone, you were whole. Yet, in Hamburg, all that time later.. in Hamburg, you were barely a person. Just a voice, telling a story, so detached that it might have happened to someone whom you met on the Paris Metro half a lifetime ago. It's as though you existed in memories alone, just a shell with a myriad of recollections stored behind your eyes.

It's circular, I suppose. You lived, and then, eighteen years later, you were still alive, but only because you had that memory of what living was like. You could remember what life tasted like, what its colours were, but you couldn't for the life of you recreate them to a tangible notion for the present time. Perhaps, in another eighteen years, you'll find out what living is again, and you'll do more than merely exist. Who can say.

One day, maybe, let me know where you went, and with whom you ended up. It all seemed so final, so very final, and sometimes, I think I miss you. Last November and late at night, wandering through Vlaanderen fields myself, where the rain had leached all colour from the landscape, and what you said came to mind - of the cold November rains that drenched the earth and lent everything the gloomy air of a Flemish landscape - and I think I really did miss you, then. I wanted to find an all-night café with a payphone, and call you, and ask you where you were and where you'd been, and if you ever did return to Midori, or if that last phone call's silence was a mutual aeternum vale.

Yes, I often do wonder. Where did you go?

Regards,
Lena.

Haruki Murakami | The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle | 1997

Dear Toru-san,

Please forgive me contacting you unannounced. If my overture is undesirable, do not hesitate to erase this letter and my name from your memory.

I continue to feel sad and confused about your missing cat, Noboru Wataya. I can almost hear his distinctive meow in my imagination (if only I could see a photo). What happened to him, and to your wife? How you are feeling now?

I know you have been meeting a lot of strange people, and you always seem so open to new experiences, so I thought I¹d take a chance and invite you to my home for a simple spaghetti dinner. There, I hope you might reveal the truth behind this mystery. I also have my own theories, so perhaps we will have a true meeting of minds.

If not, we¹ll at least have some pasta to enjoy (it¹s a recipe from a restaurant in Italy I went to last summer), and I¹ll play the latest recording of the London Symphony so we have the option of listening instead of talking.

I so look forward to your reply.

Best,
Christine Thomas

P.S.: I will also turn off my phone so mysterious callers don¹t interrupt us.