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What if i’ve forgotten the most important thing? what if somewhere inside me there is a dark limbo where all the truly important memories are heaped and slowly turning into mud?...the thought fills me with an almost unbearable sorrow.
-Haruki Murakami
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What If I’ve Forgotten The Most Important

Haruki Murakami
What if i’ve forgotten the most important thing? what if somewhere inside me there is a dark limbo where all the truly important memories are heaped and slowly turning into mud?...the thought fills me with an almost unbearable sorrow.
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Memories Dark What If

More From Haruki Murakami

Ought we not, from time to time, open ourselves up to cosmic sadness? ... give your sorrow all the space and shelter in yourself that is its due, for if everyone bears his grief honestly and courageously, the sorrow that now fills the world will abate. but if you do not clear a decent shelter for your sorrow, and instead reserve most of the space inside you for hatred and thoughts of revenge-from which new sorrows will be born for others-then sorrow will never cease in this world and will multiply.
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You have your wonderful memories," people said later, as if memories were solace. memories are not. memories are by definition of times past, things gone. memories are the westlake uniforms in the closet, the faded and cracked photographs, the invitations to the weddings of the people who are no longer married, the mass cards from the funerals of the people whose faces you no longer remember. memories are what you no longer want to remember.
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When the emotional soul receives a wounding shock, the soul seems to recover as the body recovers. but this is only in appearance. slowly, slowly the wound to the soul begins to make itself felt, like a bruise, which only slowly deepens its terrible ache, till it fills all the psyche. and when we think we have recovered and forgotten, it is then that the terrible after-effects have to be encountered at their worst.
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There are houses whose souls have passed into the limbo of time, leaving their bodies in the limbo of london. such was not quite the condition of timothy's on the bayswater road, for timothy's soul still had one foot in timothy forsyte's body, and smither kept the atmosphere unchanging, of camphor and port wine and house whose windows are only opened to air it twice a day.
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Recently, one friend asked me, "how can i force myself to smile when i am filled with sorrow? it isn't natural." i told her she must be able to smile to her sorrow, because we are more than our sorrow. a human being is like a television set with millions of channels. if we turn the buddha on, we are the buddha. if we turn sorrow on then we are sorrow. if we turn a smile on, we really are the smile. we can not let just one channel dominate us. we have the seed of everything in us, and we have to seize the situation in our hand, to recover our own sovereignty.
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Watch them clamber, these swift monkeys! they clamber over one another and thus drag one another into the mud and the depth. they all want to get to the throne: that is their madness — as if happiness sat on the throne. often, mud sits on the throne — and often the throne also on mud. mad they all appear to me, clambering monkeys and overardent. foul smells their idol, the cold monster: foul, they smell to me altogether, these idolators.
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