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02 February 2011

TONY TAKITANI, A Short story by HARUKI MURAKAMI





TONY TAKITANI

A Short story by HARUKI MURAKAMI

Published in New Yorker Magazine Issue of 2002-04-15

Tony Takitani's real name was really that: Tony Takitani.

Because of his name and his curly hair and his deeply sculpted features, he
was often assumed to be a mixed-blood child. This was just after the war,
when there were lots of children around whose blood was half American G.I.
But Tony Takitani's mother and father were both one-hundred-per-cent
genuine Japanese. His father, Shozaburo Takitani, had been a fairly
successful jazz trombonist, but four years before the Second World War
broke out he was forced to leave Tokyo because of a problem involving a
woman. If he had to leave town, he figured, he might as well really leave, so
he crossed over to China with nothing but his trombone in hand. In those
days, Shanghai was just a day's boat ride from Nagasaki. Shozaburo owned
nothing in Tokyo - or anywhere else in Japan - that he would hate to lose. He
left without regrets. If anything, he suspected, Shanghai, with its well-crafted
enticements, would be better suited to his personality than Tokyo was. He
was standing on the deck of a boat plowing its way up the Yangtze River the
first time he saw Shanghai's elegant avenues glowing in the morning sun,
and that did it. The light seemed to promise him a future of tremendous
brightness. He was twenty-one years old.

And so he took it easy through the upheaval of the war - from the Japanese
invasion of China to the attack on Pearl Harbor to the dropping of two atomic
bombs. He played his trombone in Shanghai night clubs as the struggles took
place somewhere far away. Shozaburo Takitani was a man who possessed
not the slightest inclination to influence - or even to reflect upon - history. He
wanted nothing more than to be able to play his trombone, eat three meals a
day, and have a few women nearby. He was simultaneously modest and
arrogant. Deeply self-centered, he nevertheless treated those around him
with kindness and good feeling, which is why most people liked him. Young,
handsome, and a talented musician, he stood out wherever he went like a
crow on a snowy day. He slept with more women than he could count.
Japanese, Chinese, White Russians, whores, married women, gorgeous girls,
and girls who were not so gorgeous: he did it with anyone he could get his
hands on. Before long, his super-sweet trombone and his super-active giant
penis had made him a Shanghai sensation.

Shozaburo was also blessed - though he did not realize it - with a talent for
making "useful" friends. He was on good terms with high-ranking Army
officers, millionaires, and various influential types who were reaping gigantic
profits from the war through obscure channels. A lot of them carried pistols
under their jackets and never exited a building without giving the street a
quick scan right and left. For some reason, Shozaburo Takitani and they just
"clicked." And they took special care of him whenever problems came up.

But talent can sometimes work against you. When the war ended,
Shozaburo's connections won him the attention of the Chinese Army, and he
was locked up for a long time. Day after day, others who had been
imprisoned for similar reasons were taken out of their cells and executed
without a trial. Guards would just appear, drag them into the prison yard,
and blow their brains out with automatic pistols. Shozaburo assumed that he
would die in prison. But the prospect of death did not frighten him greatly.
They would put a bullet through his brain, and it would be all over. A split
second of pain. I've lived the way I wanted to all these years, he thought.
I've slept with tons of women. I've eaten a lot of good food, and had a lot of
good times. There isn't so much in life that I'm sorry I missed. Besides, I'm
not in any position to complain about being killed. It's just the way it goes.
Hundreds of thousands of Japanese have died in this war, and many of them
in far more terrible ways.

As he waited, Shozaburo watched the clouds drift by the bars of his tiny
window and painted mental pictures on his cell's filthy walls of the faces and
bodies of the women he had slept with. In the end, though, he turned out to
be one of only two Japanese prisoners to leave the prison alive and go home
to Japan. By that time, the other man, a high-ranking officer, had nearly lost
his mind. Shozaburo stood on the deck of the boat, and as he watched the

-----
For the rest of the story, please click here.
For information about the movie directed by Jun Ichikawa and starring Issey Ogata and Rie Miyazawa, click here.

On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning, by Haruki Murakami






One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.


Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"


Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?


Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

 _______________________________

You can read more of Haruki Murakami's short stories in the collections The Elephant Vanishes: Stories and Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman (Vintage International).

For a complete list of English translations of his writing (novels, short stories, nonfiction), you can check out  his publisher's page here.

Maira Kalman explains How Everyone Got to America


You can read the rest here.

And if you like Maira Kalman's work, her New York Times series has been collected in this book And the Pursuit of Happiness

01 February 2011

Know Thyself - Part 2

"We are unknown to ourselves, we men of knowledge--and with good reason. We have never sought ourselves--how could it happen that we should ever find ourselves? . . . So we are necessarily strangers to ourselves, we do not comprehend ourselves, we have to misunderstand ourselves, for us the law "Each is furthest from himself" applies to all eternity--we are not "men of knowledge" with respect to ourselves."

- Friedrich Nietzsche On the Genealogy of Morals: A Polemic. By way of clarification and supplement to my last book Beyond Good and Evil (Oxford World's Classics)

Know Thyself - Part 1

“I am still unable to know myself; and it really seems to me ridiculous to look into other things before I have understood that.”

- says Socrates, as recounted by Plato in Plato's Phaedrus.

What are the Top Ten Poisons?



The following are author Deborah Blum's Top Ten.  For an entertaining account of how various poisons work, check out her book The Poisoner's Handbook: Murder and the Birth of Forensic Medicine in Jazz Age New York.

On a recent radio show, I heard myself telling the host "And carbon monoxide is such a good poison.” We both started laughing--there’s just something about a Pulitzer-prize winning journalist waxing enthusiastic about something so lethal. But then he became curious--“Why?” he asked. “Why do you like it so much?”

These days, as I travel the country talking about The Poisoner’s Handbook, I’m frequently asked that question or variations on it. What’s your favorite poison? What’s the perfect poison? The answer to the latter is that it doesn’t exist--except in the plots of crime novels.

But in reality, poisons really are fascinatingly wicked chemical compounds and many of them have fascinating histories as well. Just between us, then, here’s a list of my personal favorites.

1. Carbon Monoxide (really)--It’s so beautifully simple (just two atoms--one of carbon, one of oxygen) and so amazingly efficient a killer. There’s a story I tell in the book about a murder syndicate trying to kill an amazingly resilient victim. They try everything from serving him poison alcohol to running over him with a car. But in the end, it’s carbon monoxide that does him in.

2. Arsenic--This used to be the murderer’s poison of poisons, so commonly used in the early 19th century that it was nicknamed “the inheritance powder”. It’s also the first poison that forensic scientists really figured out how to detect in a corpse. And it stays in the body for centuries, which is why we keep digging up historic figures like Napoleon or U.S. President Zachary Taylor to check their remains for poison.

3. Radium--I love the fact that this rare radioactive element used to be considered good for your health. It was mixed into medicines, face creams, health drinks in the 1920s. People thought of it like a tiny glowing sun that would give them its power. Boy, were they wrong. The two scientists in my book, Charles Norris and Alexander Gettler, proved in 1928 that the bones of people exposed to radium became radioactive--and stayed that way for years.

4. Nicotine--This was the first plant poison that scientists learned to detect in a human body. Just an incredible case in which a French aristocrat and her husband decided to kill her brother for money. They actually stewed up tobacco leaves in a barn to brew a nicotine potion. And their amateur chemical experiments inspired a very determined professional chemist to hunt them down.

5. Chloroform--Developed for surgical anesthesia in the 19th century, this rapidly became a favorite tool of home invasion robbers. If you read newspapers around the turn of the 20th century, they’re full of accounts of people who answered a knock on the door, only to be knocked out by a chloroform soaked rag. One woman woke up to find her hair shaved off--undoubtedly sold for the lucrative wig trade.

6. Mercury--In its pure state, mercury appears as a bright silver liquid, which scatters into shiny droplets when touched. No wonder it’s nicknamed quicksilver. People used to drink it as a medicine more than 100 years ago. No, they didn’t drop dead. Those silvery balls just slid right through them. Mercury is much more poisonous if it’s mixed with other chemicals and can be absorbed by the body directly. That’s why methylmercury in fish turns out to be so risky a contaminant.

7. Cyanide--One of the most famous of the homicidal poisons and--in my opinion--not a particularly good choice. Yes, it’s amazingly lethal--a teaspoon of the pure stuff can kill in a few minutes. But it’s a violent and obvious death. In early March, in fact, an Ohio doctor was convicted of murder for putting cyanide in his wife’s vitamin supplements.

8. Aconite--A heart-stoppingly deadly natural poison. It forms in ornamental plants that include the blue-flowering monkshood. The ancient Greeks called it “the queen of poisons” and considered it so evil that they believed that it derived from the saliva of Cerberus, the three-headed dog guarding the gates of hell.

9. Silver--Swallowing silver nitrate probably won’t kill you but if you do it long enough it will turn you blue. One of my favorite stories (involving a silver bullet) concerns the Famous Blue Man of Barnum and Bailey’s Circus who was analyzed by one of the heroes of my book, Alexander Gettler.

10. Thallium--Agatha Christie put this poison at the heart of one of her creepiest mysteries, The Pale Horse, and I looked at it terms of a murdered family in real life. An element discovered in the 19th century, it’s a perfect homicidal poison--tasteless and odorless--except for one obvious giveaway--the victim’s hair falls out as a result of the poisoning!

Now that I’ve written this list, I realize I could probably name ten more. But I don’t want to scare you.

What's the quietest Garage Door Opener?



Belt-driven garage door openers are the quietest.  An excellent belt-drive model is the Chamberlain WD822KD Whisper Drive 1/2-HP Belt Drive Garage Door Opener.

The WD822KD Whisper Drive
Garage Access System
At a Glance:
  • Whisper-quiet, smooth operation
  • "Security+" rolling-code technology
  • PosiLock theft protection
  • Safety sensors with Rapid-Snap brackets
  • Two remote controls, wall-mount panel, keyless entry pad

31 January 2011

How to Make Hard-Boiled Eggs

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Follow the steps in this wiki: How to Boil Eggs

For the science behind the technique (why it is not a good idea to cook the eggs at 212 degrees Fahrenheit or 100 degrees Celsius), you can read Herve This's explanation here or check out the egg chapter in Harold McGee's book On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen.