Моряк, которого разлюбило море

Они не понимают смысла слова «опасность». Думают, опасность — это когда у кого-то пустили немного крови, а газеты раздули шумиху. Какая чушь. Настоящая опасность заключается в самой жизни. С одной стороны, жизнь — это всего лишь хаос, но в то же время и работа по сведению бытия к первоначальному состоянию хаоса, когда, пользуясь тревогой как наживкой, мы ежесекундно пытаемся его изменить. Другой такой опасной работы не найти. Тревоги самой по себе не существует, ее постоянно порождает сама жизнь. Общество сродни римской бане. Сколько ни посещай мыльную, грязи меньше не станет. Школа — это калька с общества… Вот почему нам постоянно приказывают. Причем приказывают слепые, которые даже не подозревают о наших безграничных возможностях.

Finally, rocking the whole harbour and carrying to every city window; assailing kitchens with dinner on the stove, and shoddy hotel bedrooms where sheets are never changed, and desks waiting for children to come home, and schools and tennis courts and graveyards; plunging everything into a moment of grief and ruthlessly tearing even the hearts of the uninvolved, the Rakuyo’s siren screamed one last enormous farewell. Trailing white smoke, she sailed straight out to sea. Ryuji was lost from sight.

He hadn’t been able to explain his ideas of glory and death, or the longing and the melancholy pent up in his chest, or the other dark passions choking in the ocean’s swell. Whenever he tried to talk about these things, he failed. If there were times when he felt he was worthless, there were others when something like the magnificence of the sunset over Manila Bay sent its radiant fire through him and he knew that he had been chosen to tower above other men. But he hadn’t been able to tell the woman about his conviction. He remembered her asking: ' Why haven’t you ever married?’ And he remembered his simpering answer: ‘It’s not easy to find a woman who is willing to be a sailor’s wife.’

It was like being part of a miracle: in that instant everything packed away inside Noboru’s breast since the first day of his life was released and consummated. Until the horn sounded, it was only a tentative sketch. The finest materials had been prepared and all was in readiness, verging on the unearthly moment. But one element was lacking: the power needed to transfigure these motley shreds of reality into a gorgeous palace. Then, at a signal from the horn, the parts merged into a perfect whole.

At thirteen, Noboru was convinced of his own genius (each of the others in the gang felt the same way) and certain that life consisted of a few simple signals and decisions; that death took root at the moment of birth and man's only recourse thereafter was to water and tend it; that propagation was a fiction; consequently, society was a fiction too: that fathers and teachers, by virtue of being fathers and teachers, were guilty of a grievous sin. Therefore, his own father's death, when he was eight, had been a happy incident, something to be proud of.