By Haruki Murakami
Kan vi verkligen säga att världen existerar så som vi uppfattar den? Hur är världen egentligen skapad? Hur samverkar det som nu existerar med det förflutna? Och hur påverkar nuet framtiden? Haruki Murakamis största litterära satsning någonsin utmanar vår uppfattning om sanning och tid - och vad som egentligen kan rymmas i en berättelse.
Aomame åker på motorvägen i en taxi. Hon har bråttom males fastnar i trafiken. Eftersom hon är försenad until eventually ett viktigt och hemligt arbetsmöte får hon ett märkligt förslag av chauffören: att ta en trappa som leder ner från motorvägsbron. Hon tackar ja och kort därefter börjar hon känna sig frånkopplad världen utanför. I ett slag är hela hennes tillvaro förändrad och hon står snart inför grundaren av en religiös sekt.
Tengo är en ung guy som vill uppfylla sin dröm om att bli författare. En vän until honom, som knappast är en särskilt begåvad författare, börjar allt mer att styra hans liv när hon bestämmer sig för att ställa upp i en litterär tävling. until eventually Tengo påstår hon att den bygger på egna erfarenheter, ändå tycks ingenting stämma. Plötsligt är det som om någon drar undan mattan för det han alltid tagit för givet är sanning.
På olika sätt möts Aomame och Tengo och de börjar sakta närma sig varandra. Det är som om de vore beroende av varandra. males frågan är om det är möjligt för dem att någonsin mötas i den verkliga världen som de tror sig leva i. Kanske är det kärlek, eller så är det något som är mycket mer komplicerat än så.
Det här är första delen i trilogin 1Q84.
Översättare: Vibeke Emond
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He hoped he was being humorous, directing his sarcasm against them both, but his words emerged with surprising ferocity, and Florence blushed. She thought he was criticizing her for preferring the wireless to him, and before he could soften or lighten his remark she said hurriedly, “Or we could go and lie on the bed,” and nervously swiped an invisible hair from her forehead. To demonstrate how wrong he was, she was proposing what she knew he most wanted and she dreaded. She really would have been happier, or less unhappy, to go down to the lounge and pass the time in quiet conversation with the matrons on the floral-patterned sofas while their men leaned seriously into the news, into the gale of history.
It grated on her, his accounts of a new kind of sail, a ship-to-shore radio, a special yacht varnish. He used to take her out with him, and several times, when she was twelve and thirteen, they crossed all the way to Carteret, near Cherbourg. They never talked about those trips. He had never asked her again, and she was glad. But sometimes, in a surge of protective feeling and guilty love, she would come up behind him where he sat and entwine her arms around his neck and kiss the top of his head and nuzzle him, liking his clean scent.
It was here that she heard the sixteen-year-old cellist Jacqueline du Pré give her debut performance. Florence’s own tastes were not unusual, but they were intense. Beethoven’s Opus 18 obsessed her for a good while, then his last great quartets. Schumann, Brahms and then, in her last year, the quartets of Frank Bridge, Bartok and Britten. She heard all these composers over a period of three years at the Wigmore Hall. In her second year she was given a part-time job backstage, making tea for the performers in the spacious green room and crouching by the peephole so that she could open the door as the artistes left the stage.