“He had no itch to dig for glories
Deep in the dirt that time has laid”
I find it hard to talk about myself. I’m always tripped up by the eternal who am I? paradox. Sure, no one knows as much pure data about me as me. But when I talk about myself, all sorts of otherfactors—values, standards, my own limitations as an observer—make me, the narrator, select an deliminate things about me, the narratee. I’ve always been disturbed by the thought that I’m not painting a very objective picture of myself.
This kind of thing doesn’t seem to bother most people. Given the chance, they’re surprisingly frank when they talk about themselves. “I’m hone stand open to a ridiculous degree,” they’ll say, or “I’m thin-skinned and not the type who gets along easily in the world,” or “I’m very good at sensing others’ true feelings.” But any number of times I’ve seen people who say they’re easily hurt or hurt other people for no apparent reason. Self-styled honest and open people, without realizing what they’re doing, blithely use some self-serving excuse to get what they want. And those who are “good at sensin gothers’ true feelings” are taken in by the most transparent flattery. It’s enough to make me ask the question: how well do we really know ourselves?
Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart, published by Vintage 2002, page:59-60
I had a dream last night.
I’ve seen people from past.
I’ve seen the things they have lived today.
They hugged each other like they never had before.
They were laughing.
They were monsters who acts as sensitive.
I see them every fucking day.
But I can not seemyself.
I do not know how I am anymore.
What do I like?
Who I am?
Do I have a cat?
Are my hair long?
What color are my eyes?
Do I smile?