Three Key Quotes

This short story is by Haruki Murakami. I copied it from this web­site.

On See­ing the 100% Per­fect Girl One Beau­ti­ful April Morning.

One beau­ti­ful April morn­ing, on a nar­row side street in Tokyo’s fash­ion­able Haru­juku neigh­bor­hood, I walked past the 100% per­fect girl.

Tell you the truth, she’s not that good-looking. She doesn’t stand out in any way. Her clothes are noth­ing spe­cial. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn’t young, either — must be near thirty, not even close to a “girl,” prop­erly speak­ing. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She’s the 100% per­fect girl for me. The moment I see her, there’s a rum­bling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own par­tic­u­lar favorite type of girl — one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or grace­ful fin­gers, or you’re drawn for no good rea­son to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own pref­er­ences, of course. Some­times in a restau­rant I’ll catch myself star­ing at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% per­fect girl cor­re­spond to some pre­con­ceived type. Much as I like noses, I can’t recall the shape of hers — or even if she had one. All I can remem­ber for sure is that she was no great beauty. It’s weird.

“Yes­ter­day on the street I passed the 100% girl,” I tell someone.

“Yeah?” he says. “Good-looking?”

“Not really.”

“Your favorite type, then?”

“I don’t know. I can’t seem to remem­ber any­thing about her — the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts.”

“Strange.”

“Yeah. Strange.”

“So any­how,” he says, already bored, “what did you do? Talk to her? Fol­low her?”

“Nah. Just passed her on the street.”

She’s walk­ing east to west, and I west to east. It’s a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about her­self, tell her about myself, and — what I’d really like to do — explain to her the com­plex­i­ties of fate that have led to our pass­ing each other on a side street in Hara­juku on a beau­ti­ful April morn­ing in 1981. This was some­thing sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talk­ing, we’d have lunch some­where, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cock­tails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Poten­tial­ity knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the dis­tance between us has nar­rowed to fif­teen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

“Good morn­ing, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a lit­tle conversation?”

Ridicu­lous. I’d sound like an insur­ance salesman.

“Par­don me, but would you hap­pen to know if there is an all-night clean­ers in the neighborhood?”

No, this is just as ridicu­lous. I’m not car­ry­ing any laun­dry, for one thing. Who’s going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the sim­ple truth would do. “Good morn­ing. You are the 100% per­fect girl for me.”

No, she wouldn’t believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% per­fect girl for you, but you’re not the 100% boy for me. It could hap­pen. And if I found myself in that sit­u­a­tion, I’d prob­a­bly go to pieces. I’d never recover from the shock. I’m thirty-two, and that’s what grow­ing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can’t bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white enve­lope lack­ing only a stamp. So: She’s writ­ten some­body a let­ter, maybe spent the whole night writ­ing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The enve­lope could con­tain every secret she’s ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She’s lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have deliv­ered it prop­erly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started “Once upon a time” and ended “A sad story, don’t you think?”

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eigh­teen and the girl six­teen. He was not unusu­ally hand­some, and she was not espe­cially beau­ti­ful. They were just an ordi­nary lonely boy and an ordi­nary lonely girl, like all the oth­ers. But they believed with their whole hearts that some­where in the world there lived the 100% per­fect boy and the 100% per­fect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a mir­a­cle. And that mir­a­cle actu­ally happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the cor­ner of a street.

“This is amaz­ing,” he said. “I’ve been look­ing for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you’re the 100% per­fect girl for me.”

“And you,” she said to him, “are the 100% per­fect boy for me, exactly as I’d pic­tured you in every detail. It’s like a dream.”

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their sto­ries hour after hour. They were not lonely any­more. They had found and been found by their 100% per­fect other. What a won­der­ful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% per­fect other. It’s a mir­a­cle, a cos­mic miracle.

As they sat and talked, how­ever, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one’s dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momen­tary lull in their con­ver­sa­tion, the boy said to the girl, “Let’s test our­selves — just once. If we really are each other’s 100% per­fect lovers, then some­time, some­where, we will meet again with­out fail. And when that hap­pens, and we know that we are the 100% per­fect ones, we’ll marry then and there. What do you think?”

“Yes,” she said, “that is exactly what we should do.”

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, how­ever, was utterly unnec­es­sary. They should never have under­taken it, because they really and truly were each other’s 100% per­fect lovers, and it was a mir­a­cle that they had ever met. But it was impos­si­ble for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indif­fer­ent waves of fate pro­ceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One win­ter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season’s ter­ri­ble inluenza, and after drift­ing for weeks between life and death they lost all mem­ory of their ear­lier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence’s piggy bank.

They were two bright, deter­mined young peo­ple, how­ever, and through their unremit­ting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowl­edge and feel­ing that qual­i­fied them to return as full-fledged mem­bers of soci­ety. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstand­ing cit­i­zens who knew how to trans­fer from one sub­way line to another, who were fully capa­ble of send­ing a special-delivery let­ter at the post office. Indeed, they even expe­ri­enced love again, some­times as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shock­ing swift­ness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beau­ti­ful April morn­ing, in search of a cup of cof­fee to start the day, the boy was walk­ing from west to east, while the girl, intend­ing to send a special-delivery let­ter, was walk­ing from east to west, but along the same nar­row street in the Hara­juku neigh­bor­hood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very cen­ter of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost mem­o­ries glim­mered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rum­bling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% per­fect girl for me.

He is the 100% per­fect boy for me.

But the glow of their mem­o­ries was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clar­ity of four­teen years ear­lier. With­out a word, they passed each other, dis­ap­pear­ing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don’t you think?

Yes, that’s it, that is what I should have said to her.

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