#205 Year of the Spaghetti- Haruki Murakami
You could name this one 'Zen and the Art of Cooking
Spaghetti'. “Thinking about spaghetti that boils eternally but is never done is
a sad, sad thing.”
Or you could name it 'Apocalypse Pasta' or something like that. “Spring, summer, and,
fall, I cooked away, as if cooking spaghetti were an act of revenge. Like a
lonely, jilted girl throwing old love letters into the fireplace, I tossed one
handful of spaghetti after another into the pot.”
This man has two things going on in his world: he’s going
crazy, and he loves spaghetti, although I don’t think one thing necessarily led
to the other. He sits in his room on the floor where the sun warms the floor,
and thinks people are outside his door, people like William Holden and himself
from a few years ago.
“Not one of these people, though, actually ventured into my
apartment. They hovered just outside the door, without knocking, like figments
of memory, and then slipped away.”
He can no longer handle the everyday responsibilities of
life, so he cooks spaghetti, alone, in a pot big enough to hold a German
shepherd.
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