Haruki Murakami: "Colorless Tsukuru-Tazaki"
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London: Harvill Secker, 2014 
(hardback)


p.27: [NP] That night, after he still hadn't heard from his friends,
Tsukuru had trouble sleeping. He felt agitated. Random, senseless
thoughts flitted around in his head. But all these thoughts were just
variations on one theme. Like a man who has lost his sense of direction,
Tsukuru's thoughts endlessly circled the same place. By the time he
became aware of what his mind was doing, he found himself back where he'd
started. Finally, his thinking process got stuck, as if the folds of
his brain were a broken screw. [NP]


p.45: [NP] `Ideas are like beards. Men don't have them until they grow
up. Somebody said that, but I can't remember who.' [NP] `Voltaire,' the
younger man said.



p.97: [NP] It was just before 8 a.m. when he woke up. [NP] He
immediately checked his underwear for signs of semen, Whenever he had
sexual dreams like this one, there was always evidence. But this time,
nothing. Tsukuru was baffled. In his dream -- or at least in a place
that wasn't reality -- he'd most definitely ejaculated. The afterglow
was still with him. A copious amount of __real__ semen should have
gushed out. But there was no trace of it. [NP] And then he remembered how
Haida had taken it all in his mouth. [NP] He shut his eyes and
grimaced. Did that really happen? No, that's impossible. It all took
place in the dark interior of my mind. No matter how you look at it. So
where did all that semen gush out to? Did it all vanish, too, in the
inner recesses of my mind?


p.98: [NP] Tsukuru decided not to pursue it further. He could think
about it all he wanted and never find an answer. He placed his doubt
inside a drawer in his mind labeled `Pending' and postponed any further
consideration. He had many such drawers inside him, with numerous doubts
and questions tucked away.


p.296: To fill in the silence Tsukuru lowered the needle onto the
record again, went back to the sofa, and settled in to listen to the
music. This time he tried his best not to think of anything in
particular. With his eyes closed and his mind a blank, he focused solely
on the music. Finally, as if lured in by the melody, images flashed 
behind his eyelids, one after the next, appearing, then disappearing. A
series of images without concrete form or meaning, rising up from the
dark margins of consciousness, soundlessly crossing into the visible
realm, only to be sucked back into the margins on the other side and
vanish once again. Like the mysterious outline of microorganisms
swimming across the circular field of vision of a microscope. [NP]