How much of this person I called myself was actually me? And how much was not? These hands clutching the steering wheel, what percentage of them could I call my own? The scenery outside, how much of it was real? The more I thought about it, the less I seemed to understand.

Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun

read this entire gem today. that’s how good Murakami is. that’s how good.

Wednesday Jun 6 @ 05:01pm
75 notes
tagged as: murakami. south of the border west of the sun.
reblogged from sveitinmillisolkerfa
originally posted by sveitinmillisolkerfa

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