First Person Singular by Haruki Murakami (fiction novels to read TXT) 📕

myself. I’m not trying to excuse my actions, but my dopamine levels force me to do that. Like there’s a voice telling me, Hey, go ahead, steal the name. It’s not like it’s illegal or anything.”

I folded my arms and studied the monkey. Dopamine? Finally, I spoke up. “And the names you steal are only those of the women you love or sexually desire. Do I have that right?”

“Exactly. I don’t randomly steal just anybody’s name.”

“How many people’s names have you stolen?”

With a serious expression the monkey totaled it up on his fingers. As he counted, he was muttering something. He looked up. “Seven in all. I stole seven women’s names.”

Was this a lot, or not so many? Who could say?

“So how do you go about stealing names?” I asked. “If you don’t mind telling me?”

“It’s mostly by willpower. Power of concentration, psychic energy. But that’s not enough. I need something with the person’s name actually written on it. An ID is ideal. A driver’s license, student ID, insurance card, or passport. Things of this sort. A name tag will work, too. Anyway, I need to get hold of an actual object like that. Mostly I steal them. Stealing is the only way. As a monkey I’m pretty skilled at sneaking into people’s rooms when they’re out. I scout around for something with their name on it and take it back with me.”

“So you use that object with the woman’s name on it, along with your willpower, and steal their name.”

“Precisely. I stare at the name written there for a long time, focusing my emotions, absorbing the name of the person I love. It takes a lot of time, and is mentally and physically exhausting. I get completely engrossed in it, and somehow am able to pull it off—a part of the woman becomes a part of me. And my affection and desire, which up until then had no outlet, are safely satisfied.”

“So there’s nothing physical involved?”

The monkey nodded sharply. “I know I’m just a monkey, but I never do anything unseemly. I make the name of the woman I love a part of me—that’s enough for me. I agree it’s a bit perverted, but it’s also a completely pure, platonic act. I simply possess a great love for that name inside me, secretly. Like a gentle breeze wafting over a meadow.”

“Hmm,” I said, impressed. “I guess you could even call that the ultimate form of romantic love.”

“Agreed. It may well be the ultimate form of romantic love. But it’s also the ultimate form of loneliness. Like two sides of a coin. The two extremes are stuck together, and can never be separated.”

Our conversation came to a halt here, and the monkey and I silently drank our beer, snacking on the Kakipi and dried squid.

“Have you stolen anyone’s name recently?” I asked.

The monkey shook his head. He grabbed some of the stiff hair on his arm, as if making sure he was, indeed, an actual monkey. “No, I haven’t stolen anyone’s name recently. After I came to this town, I made up my mind to stop that kind of misconduct. Thanks to which, the soul of this wee little monkey has found a measure of peace. I treasure the names of the seven women in my heart, and live a quiet, tranquil life.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said.

“I know this is quite forward of me, but I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to allow me to give my own personal opinion on the subject of love.”

“Of course,” I said.

The monkey blinked widely several times. His long eyelashes waved up and down like palm fronds in the breeze. He took a big, slow breath, the kind of deep breath a long jumper takes before he starts to run.

“I believe that love is the indispensable fuel that allows us to go on living. Someday that love may end. Or it may never amount to anything. But even if love fades away, even if it’s unrequited, you can still hold on to the memory of having loved someone, of having fallen in love with someone. And that’s a valuable source of warmth. Without that heat source a person’s heart—and a monkey’s heart, too—would turn into a bitterly cold, barren wasteland. A place where not a ray of sunlight falls, where the wildflowers of peace, the trees of hope, have no chance to grow. I treasure the names of those seven beautiful women I loved here in my heart.” At this, the monkey laid a palm on his chest. “I plan to use these memories as my own little fuel source I burn on cold nights to keep me warm as I live out what’s left of my own personal life.”

The monkey chuckled again, and lightly shook his head a few times.

“That’s a strange way of putting it, isn’t it,” he said. “Personal life. When I’m a monkey, not a person. Hee hee…”

—

It was eleven thirty when we finally finished drinking the two large bottles of beer. I should be going, the monkey said. “I started feeling so good I ran off at the mouth, I’m afraid. My apologies.”

“No, I found it an interesting story,” I said. Maybe interesting wasn’t the right word. I mean, sharing a beer and chatting together with a monkey was a pretty unusual experience. Add to that the fact that this particular monkey loved Bruckner and stole women’s names because he was driven to do so by sexual desire (or perhaps love), and interesting didn’t begin to describe it. It was the most incredible thing I’d ever heard. But I didn’t want to stir the monkey’s emotions any more than necessary, so I chose this more calming, neutral expression.

As we said goodbye, I handed the monkey a ¥1,000 bill as a tip. “It’s not much, but please buy yourself something good to eat.”

At first the monkey refused, but I insisted and he finally accepted it. He folded the bill and carefully slipped it into the