Цитаты из книги Ghostwritten

Вот последний цветок сакуры. На дереве он все время меняется, стремясь к совершенству. А достигнув его, опадает. Когда коснется земли — его неминуемо растопчут. Вот и получается, что абсолютно прекрасен он только то мгновение, пока находится в полете… Мне кажется, только мы, японцы, в состоянии понять это. Как ты думаешь?

— Как будем раскладывать сэндвичи, Мо? — Ветчина и сыр, ветчина и помидор, сыр и помидор… — А ещё ветчина, сыр и помидор. — Откуда ты знаешь? — Ты всегда раскладываешь бутерброды всеми возможными способами. — Разве? — Поэтому я и женился на тебе.

When I was a young man, and the Russkies were going to blow us all to Kingdom Come, we were told we’d have a four-minute warning. I’m talking Ford, Carter, Reagan Days. Four minutes, I used to wonder... What would I do in four minutes? Boil an egg, have sex, telephone my enemies to have the final word, listen to Jim Morrison, hotwire a car and drive three blocks?

Tell people that reality is exactly what it appears to be, they’ll nail you to a lump of wood. But tell ’em they can go spirit-walking while they commute, tell ’em their best friend is a lump of crystal, tell ’em the government has been negotiating with little green men for the last fifty years, then every Joe Six-Pack from Brooklyn to Peoria sits up and listens. Disbelieving the reality under your feet gives you a licence to print your own.

Laws may help you hack through the jungle, but no law changes the fact you’re in a jungle.

The most malicious god is the god of the counted chicken.

What is it that ties shapes of land to the human heart, Mo?

‘Poker? At poker, you get what you deserve.’ ‘Ah. I don’t think I want what I deserve.’

Integrity is a bugger, it really is. Lying can get you into difficulties, but to really wind up in the crappers try telling nothing but the truth.

People stare at the floor. Even to look at a homeless person is to sign a contract with them. I dabbled with joining the Samaritans once. The supervisor had been homeless for three years. I remember him saying that the worst thing was the invisibility. That and not being able to go anywhere where nobody else could go.

I pass through many Mes in the course of the day, each one selfish with his time. The Lying in Bed Me, and the Enjoying the Hot Shower Me are particularly selfish. The Late Me loathes the pair of them.

Little girls are like old cats. If they don’t like you nothing on Earth will make them pretend to.

I’m going to tell you a secret. Everything is about wanting. Everything. Things happen because of people wanting. Watch closely, and you’ll see what I mean.

The sunset smelt of cooking. Baljin’s niece was practising the shudraga, a long-necked lute. An old man was summoning goats. How I envy these humans their sense of belonging.

One of the things that my years of wandering has taught me is, the more impotent the country, the more dangerous its customs officials.

Backpackers are strange. I have a lot in common with them. We live nowhere, and we are strangers everywhere. We drift, often on a whim, searching for something to search for.

Grudges are demons that gnaw away your bone marrow. Time was already doing a good enough job of that. Lord Buddha has often told me that forgiveness is vital to life. I agree. Not for the well-being of the forgiven, though, but for the well-being of the forgiver.

Lord Buddha’s lips were full and proud. Always on the verge of words, yet never quite speaking. His lidded eyes, hooding a secret the world needs.

The key to understanding Neal Brose is that he is a man of departments, compartments, apartments. The maid is in one, Katy is in another, my little visitor in another, Cavendish Hong Kong in another, Account 1390931 in another. In each one lives a Neal Brose who operates quite independently of the neighbouring Neal Broses. That’s how I do it. My future is in another compartment, but I’m not looking into that one. I don’t think I’ll like what I’ll see.

Gossip works telepathically in Tokyo. The city is vast, but there’s always someone who knows someone whom someone knows. Anonymity doesn’t muffle coincidence: it makes the coincidences more outlandish.