(no subject)
I think most people live in a fiction. I’m no exception. Think of it in terms of a car’s transmission. It’s like a transmission that stands between you and the harsh realities of life. You take the raw power from outside and use gears to adjust it so everything’s all nicely in sync. That’s how you keep your fragile body intact. Does this make any sense?”
Sumire gave a small nod. “And I’m still not completely adjusted to that new framework. That’s what you’re saying?”
“The biggest problem right now is that you don’t know what sort of fiction you’re dealing with. You don’t know the plot; the style’s still not set. The only thing you do know is the main character’s name.”
“Nevertheless, this new fiction is reinventing who you are. Give it time, it’ll take you under its wing, and you may very well catch a glimpse of a new world. But you’re not there yet, which leaves you in a precarious position.”
“You mean I’ve taken out the old transmission, but haven’t quite finished bolting down the new one? And the engine still’s running. Right?”
“You could put it that way.”
Sumire made her usual sullen face and tapped her straw on the hapless ice in her drink. Finally she looked up.
“I understand what you mean by precarious. Sometimes I feel so-I don’t know-lonely. The kind of helpless feeling when everything you’re used to has been ripped away. Like there’s no more gravity, and I’m left to drift in outer space with no idea where I’m going.”
“Like a little lost Sputnik?”
“I guess so.”
- Sputnik Sweetheart, Haruki Murakami