the end of the world

from hard-boiled wonderland and the end of the world by haruki murakami


"the wall is far too grand to capture on a map.  it is not static.  its pulse is too intense, its curves too sublime.  its face changes dramatically with each new angle.  an accurate rendering on paper cannot be possible.  i feel a futility in my attempt to do so in my sketchbook.
i shut my eyes to doze.  the wind swirls at an incessant pitch, but the trees and the wall offer protection from the chill.  i think about my shadow.  i think of the map he has asked for.  there is not much time left.
my map is lacking in precision and detail.  the inner reaches of the woods are a near blank.  but winter is almost here.  there will be less and less opportunity to explore further.  in the sketchbook i have drawn a general outline of the town, including the location of landmarks and buildings.  i have made annotations of facts i have learned.
it is not certain that the gatekeeper will allow me near my shadow, even as he has promised to let us meet once the days are shorter and my shadow is weaker.  now that winter is near, these conditions would seem surely to be fulfilled.
my eyes still closed, i think about the librarian.  i am filled with sadness, although i cannot locate the source of these feelings.
i have been seeing the librarian daily, but the void in me remains.  i have read the old dreams in the library.  she has sat beside me.  we have supped together.  i have walked her home.  we have talked of many things.  unreasonably, my sorrow only seems to grow, to deepen.  whatever is the loss becomes greater each time we meet.  it is a well that will never be filled.  it is dark, unbearably so.
i suppose these feelings are linked to forgotten memories.  i have sought for some connection in her.  i learn nothing in myself.  the mystery does not yield.  my own existence seems weak, uncertain.
i shake these convoluted thoughts from my head and seek out sleep.

i awake to find that the day is nearly over, that the temperature has dropped sharply.  i am shivering.  i pull my coat tight around me.  as i stand and brush off the grass, flakes of snow touch my cheek.  i look up.  the clouds are low, a forbidding gloom builds.  there is a flurry of large snowflakes drifting gently down.  winter is come.
before i begin my way back,  i steal one more glance at the wall.  beneath the snow-swept heavens, it rears up more stately, more perfect than ever.  as i gaze up at it, i feel them peering at me.  what are you doing here?  they seem to say.  what are you looking for?
questions i cannot answer.  the short sleep in the cold has consumed all warmth in me, leaving my head swimming with abstract shapes.  do i occupy the body of another?  everything is so ponderously heavy, so vague."