Death Quote by Haruki Murakami — Inspiring Words on Life, Love & Wisdom

“My grandpa always said asking a question is embarrass for a moment but not asking a question is embarrasing for a life time”

“Loving another person is a wonderful thing, and if that love is sincere, no one ends up tossed into a labyrinth. You have to have more faith in yourself.”

“A revelation leaps over the borders of the everyday. A life without revelation is no life at all. What you need to do is move from reason that ‘observes’ to reason that ‘acts’. That’s what critical.”

“It may well be that we can never fully adapt to our own deformities. Unable to”

“Es decir..., lo que yo creo es que el hombre piensa en el significado de la vida porque sabe con certeza que va morir algún día. (...) Nadie sabe lo que va a ocurrir. Por eso nosotros, para evolucionar necesitamos la muerte.”

“La vida es esencialmente injusta. De eso no cabe la menor duda. Pero creo que incluso de las situaciones injustas es posible extraer lo que de "justicia" haya en ellas. Puede que ello cueste tiempo y esfuerzo. Y puede que ese tiempo y esfuerzo sean en vano. Decidir si merece o no la pena intentar extraer esa "justicia" es algo que, queda al criterio de cada uno.”

“The way black women say "girl" can be magical. Frankly, I have no solid beliefs about the survival of consciousness after physical death. But if it's going to happen I know what I want to see after my trek toward the light. I want to see a black woman who will smile and say, "Girl....”

“Dude, you don't want to be dead. Take it from me. No-pussy is bad. But dead is like no-pussy times ten.”

“There are only two things worse then an empty canvas: death and taxes.”

“What matters most, is not how my end happens, or if it happens now. What I care about in this instant, is that she knows how much I love her—that I lived long enough to have her love me back.”

“When the last autumn of Dickens's life was over, he continued to work through his final winter and into spring. This is how all of us writers give away the days and years and decades of our lives in exchange for stacks of paper with scratches and squiggles on them. And when Death calls, how many of us would trade all those pages, all that squandered lifetime-worth of painfully achieved scratches and squiggles, for just one more day, one more fully lived and experienced day? And what price would we writers pay for that one extra day spent with those we ignored while we were locked away scratching and squiggling in our arrogant years of solipsistic isolation?”