Read Online Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World by Haruki Murakami - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Haruki Murakami
Ads: Link
said.
I got in theVelevator and the doors slid shut without a sound. I leaned against the stainless-steel wall and heaved a big sigh.
Matter is leached of whatever color it might originally have had. The jutting jaw is locked slightly open, as if suddenly frozen when about to speak. The eye sockets, long bereft of their contents, lead to the cavernous recesses behind.
The skull is unnaturally light, with virtually no material presence. Nor does it offer any image of the species that had breathed within. It is stripped of flesh, warmth, memory. In the middle of the forehead is a small depression, rough to the touch. Perhaps this is the vestige of a broken horn.
Shadow
THE first old dream she places on the table is nothing I know as an old dream. I stare at the object before me, then look up at her. She stands next to me looking down at it. How is this an "old dream"? The sound of the words "old dream" led me to expect something else—old writings perhaps, something hazy, amorphous.
"Here we have an old dream," says the Librarian. Her voice is distant, aimless; her tone wants not so much to explain to me as to reconfirm for herself. "Or it is possible to say, the old dream is inside of this."
I nod, but do not understand.
"Take it in your hands," she prompts.
I pick it up and run my eyes over the surface to see if I can find some trace of an old dream. But there is not a clue. It is only the skull of an animal, and not a very big animal.
Dry and brittle, as if it had lain in the sun for years, the bone.
"Is this a skulTof one of the Town unicorns?" I ask her.
"Yes. The old dream is sealed inside."
"I am to reacVan old dream from this?"
"That is the work of the Dreamreader," says the Librarian.
"And what do I do with the dreams I read?"
"Nothing. You have only to read them."
"How can that be?" I say. "I know that I am to read an old dream from this. But then not to do anything with it, I do not understand. What can be the point of that? Work should have a purpose."
She shakes her head. "I cannot explain. Perhaps the dream-reading will tell you. I can only show you how it is done."
I set the skull down on the table and lean back to look at it. The skull is enveloped in a profound silence that seems nothingness itself. The silence does not reside on the surface, but is held like smoke within. It is unfathomable, eternal, a disembodied vision cast upon a point in the void.
There is a sadness about it, an inherent pathos. I have no words for it.
"Please show me," I say. I pick the skull up from the table once again and feel its weight in my hands.
Smiling faintly, she takes the skull from me and painstakingly wipes off the dust. She returns a whiter skull to the table.
"This is how to read old dreams," the Librarian begins.
"Watch carefully. Yet please know I can only imitate, I cannot actually read. You are the only one who can read the dreams. First, turn the skull to face you in this way, then gently place your hands on either side."
She touches her fingertips to the temples of the skull.
"Now gaze at the forehead. Do not force a stare, but focus softly. You must not take your eyes from the skull. No matter how brilliant, you must not look away."
"Brilliant?"
"Yes, brilliant. Before your eyes, the skull will glow and give off heat. Trace that light with your fingertips. That is how old dreams are read."
I go over the procedure in my head. It is true that I cannot picture what kind of light she means or how it should feel, but I understand the method. Looking at the skull beneath her slender fingers, I am overcome with a strong sense of deja vu. Have I seen this skull before? The leached colorlessness, the depression in the forehead. I feel a humming, just as when I first saw her face. Is this a fragment of a real memory or has time folded back on itself? I cannot tell.
"What is wrong?" she asks.
I shake my head. "Nothing. I think I see how. Let me try."
"Perhaps we should eat first," she says.
I got in theVelevator and the doors slid shut without a sound. I leaned against the stainless-steel wall and heaved a big sigh.
Matter is leached of whatever color it might originally have had. The jutting jaw is locked slightly open, as if suddenly frozen when about to speak. The eye sockets, long bereft of their contents, lead to the cavernous recesses behind.
The skull is unnaturally light, with virtually no material presence. Nor does it offer any image of the species that had breathed within. It is stripped of flesh, warmth, memory. In the middle of the forehead is a small depression, rough to the touch. Perhaps this is the vestige of a broken horn.
Shadow
THE first old dream she places on the table is nothing I know as an old dream. I stare at the object before me, then look up at her. She stands next to me looking down at it. How is this an "old dream"? The sound of the words "old dream" led me to expect something else—old writings perhaps, something hazy, amorphous.
"Here we have an old dream," says the Librarian. Her voice is distant, aimless; her tone wants not so much to explain to me as to reconfirm for herself. "Or it is possible to say, the old dream is inside of this."
I nod, but do not understand.
"Take it in your hands," she prompts.
I pick it up and run my eyes over the surface to see if I can find some trace of an old dream. But there is not a clue. It is only the skull of an animal, and not a very big animal.
Dry and brittle, as if it had lain in the sun for years, the bone.
"Is this a skulTof one of the Town unicorns?" I ask her.
"Yes. The old dream is sealed inside."
"I am to reacVan old dream from this?"
"That is the work of the Dreamreader," says the Librarian.
"And what do I do with the dreams I read?"
"Nothing. You have only to read them."
"How can that be?" I say. "I know that I am to read an old dream from this. But then not to do anything with it, I do not understand. What can be the point of that? Work should have a purpose."
She shakes her head. "I cannot explain. Perhaps the dream-reading will tell you. I can only show you how it is done."
I set the skull down on the table and lean back to look at it. The skull is enveloped in a profound silence that seems nothingness itself. The silence does not reside on the surface, but is held like smoke within. It is unfathomable, eternal, a disembodied vision cast upon a point in the void.
There is a sadness about it, an inherent pathos. I have no words for it.
"Please show me," I say. I pick the skull up from the table once again and feel its weight in my hands.
Smiling faintly, she takes the skull from me and painstakingly wipes off the dust. She returns a whiter skull to the table.
"This is how to read old dreams," the Librarian begins.
"Watch carefully. Yet please know I can only imitate, I cannot actually read. You are the only one who can read the dreams. First, turn the skull to face you in this way, then gently place your hands on either side."
She touches her fingertips to the temples of the skull.
"Now gaze at the forehead. Do not force a stare, but focus softly. You must not take your eyes from the skull. No matter how brilliant, you must not look away."
"Brilliant?"
"Yes, brilliant. Before your eyes, the skull will glow and give off heat. Trace that light with your fingertips. That is how old dreams are read."
I go over the procedure in my head. It is true that I cannot picture what kind of light she means or how it should feel, but I understand the method. Looking at the skull beneath her slender fingers, I am overcome with a strong sense of deja vu. Have I seen this skull before? The leached colorlessness, the depression in the forehead. I feel a humming, just as when I first saw her face. Is this a fragment of a real memory or has time folded back on itself? I cannot tell.
"What is wrong?" she asks.
I shake my head. "Nothing. I think I see how. Let me try."
"Perhaps we should eat first," she says.
Similar Books
