Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World by Haruki Murakami
“I like to do things with my hands. When I have time, I clear back the Woods. I am alone in this, so I cannot do large things. I work around the tall trees and choose less angering places. In spring, I grow vegetables. That is,… Have you both come here to observe?”
“Yes, something like that,” I say.
“Townfolk almost never come here,” says the Caretaker. “No one comes into the Woods. Only the delivery man. Once a week he brings me food and necessities.”
“So you live here alone?” I ask.
“Why, yes. For some time now. I can tell the mood of the works just by its sound. I am talking with the apparatus every day. That is reasonable, I have been here so long. If the works are in good condition, then I am at ease … I also know the sounds of the Woods. I hear many voices.”
“Isn’t it hard, living alone in the Woods?”
“Is living alone hard?” the Caretaker says. “I mind the Station. That is, I live here, in the Woods but not in the Woods. I do not know much further in.”
“Are there others like you here?” asks the Librarian.
The Caretaker considers the question, then nods.
“A few. Much further in, I believe there are more. They dig coal, they clear trees. I rarely meet them, I have hardly spoken to them. They do not accept me. They live in the Woods, but I live here. That is,… I go no deeper in and they almost never come out.”
“Have you ever seen a woman around here?” she asks. “An older woman, perhaps, who looks like me?”
The Caretaker shakes his head. “No, not one woman. Only men.”
I look at the Librarian, but she says nothing more.
27
Encyclopedia Wand, Immortality, Paperclips
JUST great,” I said. “So I’m screwed. How far gone are these circumstances of yours?”
“You mean the circumstances in your head?” asked the Professor.
“What else?” I snapped. “How far have you wiped out the insides of my head?”
“Well, according to my estimates, maybe six hours ago, Junction B suffered a meltdown. Of course, I say meltdown for convenience sake; it’s not as if any part of your brain actually melted. You see—”
“The third circuit is set and the second circuit is dead, correct?”
“That’s correct. So, as I was sayin’, you’ve already started bridging. In other words, you’ve begun t’produce memories. Or t’fall back on our metaphor, as your subconscious elephant factory changes, you’re makin’ adjustments via a channel to surface consciousness.”
“Which I gather means that Junction A isn’t fully functional? That information is leaking through from my subconscious?”
“Strictly speakin’, no,” said the Professor. “The channel was already in existence. Whatever we do t’your cognitive circuits, we must never sever that channel. The reason bein’ that your surface consciousness—your first circuit—developed on nurture from your subconsious—that is, from your second circuit. That channel’s the roots of your tree. Without it, your brain wouldn’t function. But the question here is that with the electrical discharge from the meltdown of Junction B, the channel’s been dealt an abnormal shock. And your brain’s so surprised, it’s started up emergency adjustment procedures.”
“Meaning, I’ll keep producing more and more new memories?”
“ ’Fraid so. Or more simply, déjà vus of sorts. Don’t differ all that much in principle. That’ll go on for a while. Till finally you reassemble a world out of these new memories.”
“Reassemble a world?”
“You heard correct. This very moment you’re preparin’ t’move to another world. So the world you see right now is changin’ bit by bit t’match up. Changin’ one percept at a time. The world here and now does exist. But on the phenomenological level, this world is only one out of countless possibilities. We’re talkin’ about whether you put your right foot or your left foot out—changes on that order. It’s not so strange that when your memories change, the world changes.”
“Pretty academic if you ask me,” I said. “Too conceptual. You’re disregarding the time factor. You’re reversing the order of things.”
“No, the time paradox here’s in your mind,” said the Professor. “As you create memories, you’re creatin’ a parallel world.”
“So I’m pulling away from the world as I originally knew it?”
“I’m just sayin’ it’s not out of the realm of possibility. Mind you, I’m not talkin’ about any out-of-this-world science-fiction type parallel universe. It’s all a matter of cognition. The world as perceived. And that’s what’s changin’ in your brain, is what I think.”
“Then after these changes, Junction A switches over, a completely different world appears, and I go on living there. There’s no avoiding that turnover—I just sit and wait for it to happen?”
“ ’Fraid so.”
“And for how long does that world go on?”
“Forever,” said the Professor.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “What do you mean ‘forever’? The physical body has its limits. The body dies, the brain dies. Brain dies, mind ceases. Isn’t that the way it goes?”
“No, it isn’t. There’s no time to tautologies. That’s the difference between tautologies and dreams. Tautologies are instantaneous, everything is revealed at once. Eternity can actually be experienced. Once you set up a closed circuit, you just keep spinnin’ ’round and ’round in there. That’s the nature of tautologies. No interruptions like with dreams. It’s like the encyclopedia wand.”
“The encyclopedia wand?” I was evolving into an echo.
“The encyclopedia wand’s a theoretical puzzle, like Zeno’s paradox. The idea is t’engrave the entire encyclopedia onto a single toothpick. Know how you do it?”
“You tell me.”
“You take your information, your encyclopedia text, and you transpose it into numerics. You assign everything a two-digit number, periods and commas included. 00 is a blank, A is 01, B is 02, and so on. Then after you’ve lined them all up, you put a decimal point before the whole lot. So now you’ve got a very long sub-decimal fraction. 0.173000631 … Next, you engrave a mark at exactly that point along the toothpick. If 0.50000’s your exact middle on the toothpick, then 0.3333’s got t’be a third of the way from the tip. You follow?”
“Sure.”
“That’s how you can fit data of any length in a single point on a toothpick. Only theoretically, of course. No existin’ technology can actually engrave so fine a point. But this should give you a perspective on what tautologies are like. Say time’s the length of your toothpick. The amount of information you can pack into it doesn’t have anything t’do with the length. Make the fraction as long as you want. It’ll be finite, but pretty near eternal. Though if you make it a repeatin’ decimal, why, then it is eternal. You understand what that means? The problem’s the software, no relation to the hardware. It could be a toothpick or a two-hundred-meter timber or the equator—doesn’t matter. Your body dies, your consciousness passes away, but your thought is caught in the one tautological point an instant before, subdividin’ for an eternity. Think about the koan: An arrow is stopped in flight. Well, the death of the body is the flight of the arrow. It’s makin’ a straight line for the brain. No dodgin’ it, not for anyone. People have t’die, the body has t’fall. Time is hurlin’ that arrow forward. And yet, like I was sayin’, thought goes on subdividin’ that time for ever and ever. The paradox becomes real. The arrow never hits.”
“In other words,” I said, “immortality.”
“There you are. Humans are immortal in their thought. Though strictly speakin’, not immortal, but endlessly, asymptotically close to immortal. That’s eternal life.”
“And that was the real goal of your research?”
“Not at all, not at all,” said the Professor. “It’s something that struck me only recently. I was just seein’ where my research would take me and I ran smack into this one. That
“And so you decided to abandon me in immortality, is that it?”
“No, no, no. That’s completely by accident, too. Never intended that at all. Believe me. It’s the truth. I never meant t’do anything of the kind. But if you act now, you can choose, if choice is what you want. There’s one last hand you can play.”
“And what might that be?”
“You can die right now,” said the Professor, very business-like. “Before Junction A links up, just check out. That leaves nothing.”
A profound silence fell over us. The Professor coughed, the chubby girl sighed, I took a slug of whiskey. No one said a word.
“That … uh, world … what is it like?” I brought myself to voice the question. “That immortal world?”
“Like I told you before,” said the Professor. “It’s a peaceful world. Your own world, a world of your own makin’. You can be your self there. You’ve got everythin’ there. And at the same time, there is nothin’. Can you picture a world like that?”
“Not really.”
“Still, it’s your consciousness that’s created it. Not somethin’ just anyone could do. Others could be wanderin’ around forever in who-knows-what contradictory chaos of a world. You’re different. You seem t’be the immortal type.”
“When’s the turnover into that world going to take place?” asked the chubby girl.
The Professor looked at his watch. I looked at my watch. Six-twenty-five. Well past daybreak. Morning papers delivered.
“Accordin’ t’my estimates, in another twenty-nine hours and thirty-five minutes,” said the Professor. “Plus or minus forty-five minutes. I set it at twelve noon for easy reference. Noon tomorrow.”
I shook my head. For easy reference? I took another slug of whiskey. The alcohol didn’t register. I didn’t even taste it. My stomach had petrified.
“What do you plan to do now?” asked the chubby girl, laying her hand on my lap.
“Hell, beats me,” I said. “But whatever, I want to get above ground. I can’t see waiting it out down here for things to take their course. I’m going up where the sun is out. Then I’ll think about what comes next.”
“Was my explanation enough for you?” inquired the Professor.
“It’ll do, thanks,” I replied.
“S’ppose you’re still mad?”
“Sure,” I said. “Though I guess anger won’t do much for me now, will it? Besides, I’m so blitzed, I still haven’t swallowed the reality of it. Later on, when it hits me, I might get furious. But by then, of course, I’ll be dead to this world.”
“Really, I hadn’t intended to go into so much detail,” said the Professor. “If I hadn’t warned you, it’d have all been over and done with before you even knew it. Probably would’ve been less stressful, too. Still, it’s not like you’re goin’ t’die. It’s just your conscious mind what’s goin’ t’disappear forever.”
“Same difference,” I said. “But either way, I’d have wanted to know. At least where my life’s concerned. I don’t want some switch like that tripping on me without my knowing about it. I like to take care of my own affairs as much as I can. Now, which way to the exit, please?”
“Exit?”
“The way out of here, to above ground.”
“It takes some time, takes you right past an INKling lair.”
“I don’t mind. At this point, there’s not much that can spook me.”
“Very well,” said the Professor. “You go down the mountain to the water, which is perfectly still by now, so it’s easy t’swim. You swim to the south-southwest. I’ll shine a light that way as a beacon. Swim straight in that direction, and on the far shore, a little ways up, there’s a small openin’. Through that you get to the sewer. Head straight along the sewer and you come to subway tracks.”
“Subway?”
“Yessir, the Ginza Line. Exactly midway between Gaienmae and Aoyama Itchome.”
“How did this all get hooked up with the subway?”
“Those INKlings got control of the subway tracks. Maybe not durin’ the daytime, but at night they’re all over the stations like they own the place. Tokyo subway system construction dramatically expanded the sphere of INKling activity. Just made more passages for them. Every once in a while they’ll attack a track worker and eat him.”
“Why don’t the authorities own up to that fact?”
“ ’Cause then who’d work for the subway? Who’d ride the subway? Of course, when they first found out, they tried brickin’ over holes, brightenin’ the lightin’, steppin’ up security, but none of that’s goin’ t’hold back your INKling. In the space of one night, they can break through walls and chew up electrical cables.”
“If it exits between Gaienmae and Aoyama Itchome, that would put us where right now?”
“Somewhere under Meiji Shrine, toward Omotesando. Never pinpointed the exact spot. Anyway, there’s only one route, you can’t go wrong. It’s narrow, meanders a lot. From here you’ll be headin’ in the direction of Sendagaya, toward the INKling lair, a little this side of the National Sports Arena. Then the tunnel takes a turn to the right, in the direction of the Jingu Baseball Stadium, then on past the Art Forum to Aoyama Boulevard to the Ginza Line. Probably take you ’bout two hours t’reach the exit. Got it?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Get yourself past the INKling lair as quickly as possible. Nothin’ good can come of dallyin’ ’round there. Mind when you get to the subway. There’s high-tension lines and subway cars. Be a pity t’make it that far and get yourself hit by a subway car.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said. “But what are you going to do?”
“I’ll stay down here for a while. I sprained my foot. Anyway, if I surfaced now, I’d only be chased by the System or Semiotecs. Nobody’s goin’ t’come after me here. Fortunately, thanks to you, I’ve got provisions. This all should keep me alive for three or four days,” said the Professor calmly. “You go on ahead. No need t’worry ’bout me.”
“What about the INKling-repel devices? It’ll take both of them to reach the exit, which will leave you without a single porta-pack.”
“Take my granddaughter along with you,” said the Professor. “The child can see you off, then return t’fetch me.”
“Fine by me,” she said.
“But suppose something were to happen to her? What if she were caught or—”
“I won’t get caught,” she stated firmly.
“Not to be worryin’,” said the Professor. “The child’s really quite dependable for her age. I trust her. And it’s not like I’m without special emergency measures. Fact is, if I have a battery and water and pieces of metal, I can throw together some makeshift INKling repellent. Quite simple, really, though short of the full effect of a porta-pack. All along the way here, didn’t y’ notice? Those bits of metal I scattered? Keeps the INKlings away for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“You mean the paperclips?” I asked.
“Yessir, paperclips are ideal. Cheap, don’t rust, magnetize in a jiff, loop them t’hang ’round your neck. All things said, I’ll take paperclips.”
I reached into my windbreaker pocket, pulled out a handful of paperclips, and handed them to the Professor. “Will these be enough?”
“My, oh my,” exclaimed the Professor with surprise. “Just what the doctor ordered. I was actually a bit concerned. I scattered a few too many on the way here and I was thinkin’ I might not have enough. You really are a sharp one.”
“We’d better be going, Grandfather,” said the girl. “He doesn’t have all that much time.”
“Take care now. Step light,” said the Professor, “and don’t let the INKlings bite. Ho-ho-ho.”
“I’ll be back for you soon,” said the granddaughter, planting a peck on his forehead.
“I’m truly sorry ’bout the way things turned out,” the Professor apologi
A loss greater than I would ever know, right? I said nothing.
“Still, it’s nothing t’fear,” the Professor philosophized. “It’s not death. It’s eternal life. And you get t’be yourself. Compared to that, this world isn’t but a momentary fantasy. Please don’t forget that.”
“Let’s get going,” said the girl, taking my arm.
28
Musical Instruments
THE young Caretaker of the Power Station invites us into his modest quarters. He checks the fire in the stove, then takes the boiling kettle into the kitchen to make tea. It is good to drink the hot infusion; we are cold from our day in the Woods. The wind-cry does not subside.
“I pick this herb in the Woods,” the Caretaker tells us. “I dry it in the shade all summer, and in winter I have it for tea. It stimulates and warms the body.”
The drink is fragrant, with an unassuming sweetness.
“What is the plant called?” I ask.
“The name? I have no idea,” he says. “It grows in the Woods, it smells good, so I make tea with it. It has green stalks about yea high, blooms midsummer, I pick the young leaves … The beasts like to eat the flowers.”
“The beasts come here?”
“Yes, until the beginning of autumn. Toward winter, they will not come near the Woods. In warm weather, they come here in groups and I play with them and I share my rations … But winter, no. They know I will give them food, and still they do not come. All winter I am alone.”
“Will you join us for lunch?” the Librarian offers. “We have brought sandwiches and fruit, too much for two.”
“That is kind of you,” says the Caretaker. “I have not eaten the food of another in a long time … Oh yes, there are forest mushrooms I picked, if you care to try.”