The New Yorker: Fiction cover image

Rebecca Curtis Reads Haruki Murakami

The New Yorker: Fiction

CHAPTER

Love Is the Ultimate Form of Loneliness

I believe that love is the indispensable fuel for us to go on living. I treasure the names of the seven women in my heart and live a quiet, quil life. Some day that love may end, or it may never amount to anything. But even if fades away, even if it's unrequited, you can still hold on to the memory of having loved some one. And that's a valuable source of warmth.

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