Haruki Murakami

We all live our lives carrying secrets we cannot disclose. 'Beguiling... Murakami is brilliant at folding the humdrum alongside the supernatural; finding the magic that's nested in life's quotidian details' Guardian When a thirty-something portrait painter is abandoned by his wife, he holes up in the mountain home of a famous artist. The days drift by, spent painting, listening to music and drinking whiskey in the evenings. But then he discovers a strange painting in the attic and unintentionally begins a strange journey of self-discovery that involves a mysterious ringing bell, a precocious thirteen-year-old girl, a Nazi assassination attempt and a haunted underworld. A stunning work of imagination, Killing Commendatore is a surreal tale of love and loneliness, war and art.

Killing Commendatore

Mathias Hellsing

Abdul H

Our lives really do seem strange and mysterious when you look back on them. Filled with unbelievably bizarre coincidences and unpredictable, zigzagging developments. While they are unfolding, it’s hard to see anything weird about them, no matter how closely you pay attention to your surroundings. In the midst of the everyday, these things may strike you as simply ordinary things, a matter of course. They might not be logical, but time has to pass before you can see if something is logical.

In the same way that people stare up at the sky to see the moon every night, yet understand next to nothing about it.

What I wanted, or needed, was the spark of that positive will. That definite source of warmth needed to live.

You can have all the desire and ache inside you want, but what you really need is a concrete starting point.

From a distance, most things look beautiful.

To paint a vibrant portrait you need the skill to discover what lies at the core of the person’s face. A face is like reading a palm. 

More than the features you’re born with, a face is gradually formed over the passage of time, through all the experiences a person goes through, and no two faces are alike.

I couldn’t help but sense, deep within his smile, a solitude that comes from a certain sort of secret. 

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