Free Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and his Years of Pilgrimage by Haruki Murakami Page B

to play anymore?” Haida asked, trying to draw him out, but a silent shake of Midorikawa’s head was his only response. Haida gave up asking. Midorikawa no longer planned to play the piano. Haida wished he could hear him perform just one more time.
    Midorikawa had a genuine talent. Of that there was no doubt. His playing had the power to physically and viscerally move the listener, to transport you to another world. Not the sort of thing one could easily create.
    But what did this unusual talent mean for Midorikawa himself? Haida couldn’t quite grasp it. If you possessed a talent like Midorikawa did, was it amazingly blissful, or was it a burden? A blessing or a curse? Or something that simultaneously contained all of these components? Either way, Midorikawa didn’t seem like a very happy person. His expression switched between gloom and apathy. A slight smile would occasionally rise to his lips, but it was always subdued and a little ironic.
    One day as Haida was chopping and carrying firewood in the backyard, Midorikawa came over to him.
    “Do you drink?” he asked.
    “A little bit,” Haida replied.
    “A little bit’s fine,” Midorikawa said. “Can you have some drinks with me tonight? I’m tired of drinking alone.”
    “I have some chores to do in the evening, but I’ll be free at seven thirty.”
    “Okay. Come to my room then.”
    When young Haida arrived at Midorikawa’s room, dinner was already laid out for both of them, along with bottles of hot sake. They sat across from each other, eating and drinking. Midorikawa ate less than half of his dinner, mainly drinking the sake, serving himself. He didn’t say anything about his own life, instead asking Haida about where he had grown up (in Akita) and about his college life in Tokyo. When he learned that Haida was studying philosophy, he asked a few technical questions. About Hegel’s worldview. About Plato’s writings. It became clear that he had systematically read those kinds of books. Mysteries weren’t the only books he read.
    “I see. So you believe in logic, do you?” Midorikawa said.
    “I do. I believe in logic, and I rely on it. That’s what philosophy’s all about, after all,” Haida replied.
    “So you don’t much like anything that’s at odds with logic?”
    “Apart from whether I like it or not, I don’t reject thinking about things that aren’t logical. It’s not like I have some deep faith in logic. I think it’s important to find the point of intersection between what is logical and what is not.”
    “Do you believe in the devil?”
    “The devil? You mean the guy with horns?”
    “That’s right. Whether he actually has horns or not, I don’t know.”
    “If you mean the devil as a metaphor for evil, then of course I believe in him.”
    “How about if this metaphor for evil takes on actual form?”
    “I couldn’t say, unless I actually saw him,” Haida said.
    “But once you saw him, it might be too late.”
    “Well, we’re speaking in hypotheticals here. If we wanted to pursue this further, we’d need some concrete examples. Like a bridge needs girders. The further you go with a hypothesis, the more slippery it gets. Any conclusions you draw from it become more fallacious.”
    “Examples?” Midorikawa said. He took a drink of sake and frowned. “But sometimes when an actualexample appears, it all comes down to a question of whether or not you accept it, or if you believe it. There’s no middle ground. You have to make a mental leap. Logic can’t really help you out.”
    “Maybe it can’t. Logic isn’t some convenient manual you just consult. Later on, though, you should be able to apply logic to any given situation.”
    “But by then it might be too late.”
    “But that has nothing to do with logic.”
    Midorikawa smiled. “You’re right, of course. Even if you find out, down the road, that it is too late, that’s different from the logic of it. That’s a sound argument. No room for