The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle: A Novel (Vintage International)

But this was the home I had chosen.

The yard of this house was very large. It had a broad, sloping lawn dotted with clumps of trees. To the left of the deck chairs was a rather large concrete-lined pond, its empty bottom exposed to the sun. Judging from its greenish tinge, it had been without water for some time. We sat with our backs to the house, which was visible through a screen

essence,

I had to make this thing I called ‘I’—or, rather, make the things that constituted me.

insurgent

The last thing I wanted to do was think.

There’s a kind of gap between what I think is real and what’s really real.

Bird

Without a true self, though, a person can not go on living. It is like the ground we stand on. Without the ground, we can build nothing.