absence

no posts and long absence from blog indicates i haven't been reading for long now...

four months since my last post.... 

hope to be able to finish more books this year round.... 

those that are still pending.....

anne frank's diary

sun tzu art of war

Blind willow, sleeping women

Man eating cats

Man eating cats
Pg 118 - 120
Written by haruki murakami
Translated by Philip Gabriel
Something clicked between us the first time we laid eyes in each other... I can't recall exactly what we talked about but we found a million topics and could have talked forever. With a laserlike clarity I could grasp everything she wanted to say. And things I couldn't well explain well to everyone else came across to her with exactness that took me by surprise... This was the order of minor miracle - running across someone you express tour feelings to so clearly so completely. Most people go their entire life without meeting a person like that...
I turned the idea around in my mind. Greece? My alcohol-soaked brain couldn't follow the logic. "I've always wanted to go to greece" she said."It's been my dream. I wanted to go on my honeymoon, but we didn't have enough noney. So let's go - the two of us. And just live there, you know, with no worries about anything..." ...we calculated how much money we had between us. She had two and half million yen in savings, while I could come up with one and a half million. Four million yen altogether - about forty thousand dollars..."...what do you say? Let's go. We will let things sort themselves out later on" what a mess, I thought. I gazed at the palm of my hand for the longest time. Was this really what my life had come to? "All right," I said finally."let's do it."

sun tzu art of war

Two... Waging war

"One who does not thoroughly understand the calamity of war shall not be able to thoroughly comprehend the advantage going to war."

The big battlefield shall become an empty shell with the peasantry losing seven-tenths of their property, while the government will incur expenditure for broken chariots, worn out horses, amours, arrows, crossbows, shields and supply wagons, amounting to six-tenths of its total revenue...

To kill the enemy is only out of impulsive rage but to profit from his defeat is to gain over his wealth. in battle, those who capture more than ten chariots from the enemy should be rewarded. change the enemy's flags with our own, mix the captured chariots with ours for our use. be kind towards captive and care for them. this is called "using the captured foe to strengthen one's own force"...

In war, what matters is victory, not prolonged campaigns. and therefore the general who understands war is the arbiter of the people's fate, and on him depends whether the nation shall be at peace or in danger.

an article about rain...

It is raining outside. I sit in utter silence on this cold late night. The house is quiet except for the occasional sway of a tree branch opposite my house. Inside all is still, the only known breathing thing is, me, alone with my thoughts. Outside the rain is pouring, slightly blowing in the wind as it beats against my window.

I have never taken the time to carefully examine the droplets of rain like I am doing today. I lean against the window, resting my head lightly against the glass. As the coolness of the glass seeps into my skin, I feel as if it is colder inside than it is outside. I watch as each droplet crashes into the pane of glasses, creating a microscopic explosion of water.

The drops remind me of tears as they slide down my window pane. It seems as though the sky is crying. I wonder what pain the sky could be feeling to let loose of such a large amount of tears. I have felt pain like that before, I have felt like there would never be enough tears to suffice to the internal pain I felt. I think this is what the sky must have felt that day as it cried those billions of tears that streamed down my window.

The purging of the waters, cast down by heaven, silently attest to the disgrace and icy abandonment acutely consuming me, much as the ground swallows the drops outside, making a muddy, ugly swirl and darkly mocking the once beautiful flowerbeds and gardens. Almost nonchalantly at first, the storm seductively entices me to morbid indulgence . I feel the rain is telling me that it can clean my spirit, the cold is showing me that sobriety of mind sometimes comes abruptly but always when most needed to whet the parched, the wind pulls me beyond my hole of self-pity, and shows me how it connects through all things in view.

I look down at the mud, and it demonstrates that the earth is happy and playful, that little streams and puddles are alive and vibrant, and everywhere as the storm plays out I am revived and rekindled. For me, I could do no less than let the storm inside merge with the storm outside, and it is now a rejuvenating storm, an affirming and cleansing storm. It is now a combined perfect storm.

sun tzu art of war

One... Planning

Five fundamental factors; moral law; heaven; earth; commands; doctrine. Therefore when laying plans, consider them carefully. By moral, whose commander is the most capable. Which army obtains the advantage of heaven and earth. Which side are regulations and instructions carried out better. Which army is stronger. Which has better trained officers and men....

All warfare is based on deception. Therefore, when capable, pretend to be incapable. When active, inactive. When near, make the enemy believe that you are far away. When far away, that you are near. Hold out baits to lure the enemy. Feign disorder and strike him. When he has the advantages position, prepare against him. When he is strong, avoid him. If he is prone to choleric temper, irritate him...

More planning shall give greater possibility of victory...

more murakami

more murakami coming...

airplane: or how he talked to himself as if reciting poetry

airplane: or how he talked to himself as if reciting poetry
page 50-53
written by haruki murakami
translated by jay rubin

"is it an old habit, the way you talk to yourself like that?"

"like what?" she had taken him off guard

...

"no, no. Not then, just anytime. Like, when you're taking shower, or when i'm in the kitchen and you're by yourself, reading the newspaper kind of thing."

"i had no idea," he said, shaking his head. "i never noticed. i talk to myself?"

"you do. really." she said

...

"i used to talk to myself a lot, too," she said. "when i was little,"

"oh, really?"

"but my mother made me stop. 'a young lasy does not talk to herself,' she used to say. and whenever i did it, she got so angry! she'd lock me in a closet - which, for me was about the scariest place i could imagine - all dark and moldy-smelling. somethimes she'd smack me on the knees with a ruler. it worked. and it didnt take very long. i stopped talking to myself - completely. not a word. after a while, i couldnt have done it if i had wanted to"

...

"even now," she said, "if i feel i'm about to say something, i just swallow my words. it's like a reflex. because i got yelled at so much when i was little. but, i dont know, what's so bad about talking to yourself? it's natural. it's just words coming out of your mouth. if my mother were still alive, i almost think i'd ask her, 'what's so bad about talking to yourself?'"

...

"what do i talk about when i talk to myself?" he ask. "for example."

"hmn," she said, slowly shaking her head a few times, almost as if she were discreetly testing the range of movement of her neck. "well, there's airplanes..."

...

He laughed. "why would i talk to myself about airplanes, of all things?"

she laughed, too. and then, using her index fingers, she measured the length of an imaginary object in the air. this was a habit of hers. one that he picked up.

"you pronounce your words so clearly, too. are you sure you dont remember talking to yourself?"

"i dont remember a thing."

...

"you talk to yourself as if you were reciting poetry."

...

he pointed at the pen and said, "next time you hear me talking to myself, take down what i say, will you?"

she stared straight into his eyes. "you really want to know?"

he nodded.

she took a piece of notepaper and started writing something on it. she wrote slowly, but she kept the pen moving, never once resting or getting stuck of words

...

"i know it all by heart," she said. "this is what you said to yourself about airplanes." he read the words aloud:

airplane

airplane flying

i, on the airplane

the airplane

flying

but still, though it flew

the airplane's

the sky?

....

murakami

reading murakami's writings always left me feeling bizarre...


....


it's great to be reading again. i couldnt recall why i stop reading since my last book. reading makes me think and writes too, i could feel i no longer lost of imagery and words



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