Mieko Kawakami Breasts And Eggs Quotes

Without love and trust, resentment is the only thing that’s left.

People like pretty things. When you’re pretty, everybody wants to look at you, they want to touch you. I wanted that for myself. Prettiness means value. But some people never experience that personally.

If you want to know how poor somebody was growing up, ask them how many windows they had. Don't ask what was in their fridge or in their closet. The number of windows says it all. It says everything. If they had none, or maybe one or two, that's all you need to know.

Well, we use words to communicate, right? Still, most of our words don’t actually get across. You know what I mean? Well, our words might, but not what we’re actually trying to say. That’s what we’re always dealing with. We live in this place, in this world, where we can share our words but not our thoughts.

We’re all so small, and have such little time, unable to envision the majority of the world.

It feels like I’m trapped inside my body. It decides when I get hungry, and when I’ll get my period. From birth to death, you have to keep eating and making money just to stay alive.

My monolithic expectation of what a woman’s body was supposed to look like had no bearing on what actually happened to my body. The two things were wholly unrelated. I never became the woman I imagined. And what was I expecting?

My life was life a dusty shelf in a old bookstore, where every volume was exactly where it had been for ages, the only discernible change being that my body has aged another ten ages.

People are willing to accept the pain and suffering of others, limitless amounts of it, as long as it helps them to keep on believing in whatever it is that they want to believe. Love, meaning, doesn’t matter.

They’re on a pedestal from the second they’re born, only they don’t realize it. Whenever they need something, their moms come running. They’re taught to believe that their penises make them superior, and that women are just there for them to use as they see fit. Then they go out into the world, where everything centers around them and their dicks. And it’s women who have to make it work. At the end of the day, where is this pain that men feel coming from? In their opinion: us. It’s all our fault—whether they’re unpopular, broke, jobless. Whatever it is, they blame women for all of their failures, all their problems. Now think about women. No matter how you see it, who’s actually responsible for the majority of the pain women feel? If you think about it that way, how could a man and a woman ever see eye to eye? It’s structurally impossible.

Beauty meant that you were good. And being good meant being happy. Happiness can be defined all kinds of ways, but human beings, consciously or unconsciously, are always pulling for their own version of happiness. Even people who want to die see death as a kind of solace, and view ending their lives as the only way to make it there. Happiness is the base unit of consciousness, our single greatest motivator.

Yeah, my mum was free labor—free labor with a pussy.

Then there are the real bastards, like my ex,” she shook her head. “He went around, patting himself on the back, like he’s so much better than all those men. ‘I know the pain that women feel, I respect women. I’ve written papers about it, I know where all the landmines are. My favorite author is Virginia Woolf’ and all that . . . So fucking what, though, right? How many times did you clean the house last month? How many times did you cook? How many times did you go grocery shopping?” I laughed.

Writing makes me happy. But it goes beyond that. Writing is my life’s work. I am absolutely positive that this is what I’m here to do. Even if it turns out that I don’t have the ability, and no one out there wants to read a single word of it, there’s nothing I can do about this feeling. I can’t make it go away.

Light spilled off every surface. The light of day. I meditated on this phrase and stared into the radiance.

There was always someone somewhere discovering a different life, a different experience than the day before, stepping off into uncharted territory. But I wasn't getting anywhere. I couldn't move; in fact, I was being pulled away, slipping further every second from the blinding light of that reality.

He used to tell me, ‘People are strange, Jun. They know nothing lasts forever, but still find time to laugh and cry and get upset, laboring over things and breaking things apart. I know it seems like none of it makes sense. But son, these things make life worth living. So don’t let anything get you down.

You have no idea what I'm talking about do you?" She exhaled through her nose. "It's really simple, I promise. Why do people think this is okay? Why do people see no harm in having children? They do it with smiles on their faces, as if it's not an act of violence. You force this other being into the world, this other being that never asked to be born. You do this absurd thing because that's what you want for yourself, and that doesn't make any sense.....I know how this sounds. You think I sound extreme, or detached from reality. Nothing could be further from the truth. This is real life. That's what I'm talking about - the pain that comes with reality. Not that anyone ever sees it...Most people go around believing life is good, one giant blessing, like the world we live in is so beautiful, and despite the pain, it's actually this amazing place

How many summers had I been alive? The obvious answer was as many summers as my age; but for some reason I felt the presence of another number, a different, realer number somewhere out there in the world. I thought about this as I gazed into the summer glare.

The sleep was like as it had been cut out from a slab of clay, round and clean.

People are strange, Jun. They know nothing lasts forever, but still find time to laugh and cry and get upset, laboring over things and breaking things apart.

It's always about them. They're only thinking about themselves. They never think about the kid being born. No one gives a damn how that child is going to feel. Isn't that crazy? Once they've had a baby, most parents would do anything to shelter them from any form of pain or suffering. But here it is, the only way to actually keep your child from ever knowing pain. Don't have them in the first place.

A long time ago, all these important people wrote about how dirty women are, and why that’s bad.

Why do people see no harm in having children? They do it with smiles on their faces, as if it’s not an act of violence. You force this other being into the world, this other being that never asked to be born. You do this absurd thing because that’s what you want for yourself, and that doesn’t make any sense.

Aizawa was alive, or at least I thought he was, but if we never saw each other again, if I had seen him for the last time ever, in what sense was he alive?

Sometimes I felt like I had left myself behind.

I had the lonely feeling that I was the only one around who didn’t know the rules.

I recognize that luck, effort, and ability are often indistinguishable. And I know that, in the end, I’m just another human being, who’s born only to die. I know that in reality, it makes no difference whether I write novels, and it makes no difference if anyone cares. With all the countless books already out there, the world won’t notice if I fail to publish even one book with my name on it. That’s no tragedy. I know that. I get that.

Once you get your period, that means your body can fertilise sperm. And that means you can get pregnant. And then we get more people, thinking and eating and filling up the world. It's overwhelming. I get little depressed just thinking about it.

What had come over me? The whole day I'd been running through old memories, getting lost in my own thoughts. But I guess that made sense. It was only natural. Despite Makiko being, in the present, my closest living relative, the bulk of our shared experiences were in the past, from another planet. In that sense, spending time with Makiko meant living in the past.

I felt something like a cross between heartache and reassurance.

but when you’re born, there’s no leaving. There’s no door.

My prejudice had biased my imagination.

People are willing to accept the pain and suffering of others, limitless amounts of it, as long as it helps them to keep on believing in whatever it is that they want to believe.

hard to tell if I’ve escaped my demons or invited them to stay.

When mom and Komi died, I never saw them again. They never visited me. This felt incredibly wrong, like an absurd injustice. For over twenty years, I hadn’t seen or heard from Mom or Komi because they died.

I could see people all around me, but I almost felt like nobody could see me. I heard a train go by, rumbling down the tracks, drawing a thick line between the world and my experience. I was getting cold again.

How many more times in my life would I sit back like this and find myself transfixed by the blue of the evening? Is this what it means to live and die alone? That you’ll always be in the same place, no matter where you are?

Whatever it is I've had to live through, it's nothing compared to being born.

She grew more nervous every minute, filling like a cup set on the floor to catch a leak. Quiet as she was, I could feel her tensing up.

a single word of it, there’s nothing I can do about this feeling. I can’t make it go away.

Behind my eyelids, I saw dancing patterns mix and break apart.

I caught a stray homunculus by the neck and tickled him. I told him that he shouldn’t be there. This bath was for women. But the rest of them cried out “THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS WOMEN” and squirmed their little bodies. They sang those words over and over. They didn’t care.

So I've been eating eggs for my whole life. But today I learned that women have "ova," as in "ovals," which literally means eggs. How is it possible I knew about sperm first? That doesn't seem fair.

I was alone, and well aware that I would stay alone—but when I pushed myself to do my best and get things done, I wound up feeling like I was standing in a limitless expanse, forsaken and alone, no dream to chase. As much as I loved to hear from Aizawa, I always felt a little lonelier after we spoke.

You're betting that the child you bring into this will be at least as happy as you've been, at least as fortunate as you've been, or, at a minimum, that they'll be able to say they're happy they were born.

For no Reason?" "For every reason". Rie emptied her sake cup. "Let's start with how she viewed my dad. He was your typical king of the hill. We couldn't say anything growing up. I was a kid, and a girl on top of that, so he never saw me as a real person. I never even heard the guy call my mother by name. It was always Hey you. We were constantly on red alert because my dad would beat the shit out of us or break things for no reason. Of course, outside the home, he was a pillar of the community. He ran the neighborhood council, and all that. My mom was my mom, always laughing it off, running the bath for him, cleaning up after him, feeding him. She looked after both of his parents all the way to the end, too. There was no inheritance, either. Yeah, my mom was free labor - free labor with a pussy.

But there was this other thing she said that really stuck with me. Even when a woman dies, she can’t become a Buddha. Because women are supposedly dirty. A long time ago, all these important people wrote about how dirty women are, and why that’s bad. So, basically, to become a Buddha, you have to be reborn as a man first. What the hell is that?

We use words to communicate, right? Still, most of our words don't usually get across. You know what I mean? Well, our words might, but not what we're actually trying to say. That's what we're dealing with. We live in this place, in the world. where we can share our words but not our thoughts.

I unlocked the door and entered the familiar assortment of shadows. It was uncomfortably cool, almost like winter. The carpeting felt damp. It actually smelled like winter. Which was funny, since I hadn’t noticed it outside. Does that mean the smell was inside my apartment? When the temperature and intensity of the sunlight and the quality of night all met certain criteria, did that smell issue from the books and clothes and curtains and the other nooks and crannies all at once? Remembering something.

Dusk was taking over. Like a cascade of lace—thousands of thin, soft layers fluttering above countless winking lights far and near. These dots of feeble light reminded me of the port town we lived in for a few years after I was born. Sailboats coming into port from the dark sea on summer evenings. People floating in the waves, little kids losing their minds when they see the white skin of a foreigner for the first time. This is how I saw the lights of home—above the faded signs, atop the concrete telephone poles, under the awnings of the stores, and by the bollards where the ships tied off to the docks—clusters of lights strung from wires and bobbing in the evening breeze.

The whole situation,” she said. “You’re betting that the child that you bring into this will be at least as happy as you’ve been, at least as fortunate as you’ve been, or, at a minimum, that they’ll be able to say they’re happy they were born. Everyone says life is both good and bad, but the majority of people think it’s mostly good. That’s why people go through with it. The odds are decent. Sure, everyone dies eventually, but life has meaning, even pain and suffering have meaning, and there’s so much joy. There’s not a doubt in your mind that your child will see it that way, just like you. No one thinks they’ll pull the short straw. They’re convinced everything will work out fine. But that’s just people believing what they want to believe. For their own benefit. The really horrible part is that this bet isn’t yours to make. You’re betting with another person’s life. Not yours.

I could see him, on a dark night, no sound but the waves, holding a book close to his face so he could underline a sentence he never wanted to forget.

Personally, I find all men repulsive.

I saw these things every day, but now they gleamed, as if sprinkled with magic dust. That scared me, because I knew the feeling couldn't last.

I never became the woman I imagined

Life is tough, but you gotta keep living until you die, you know what I mean? Sometimes you just need to escape, from your own life.

My bag was like a private room I could take with me wherever I went.

Start judging people by their genetic profiles, and pretty soon you’re seeing them like handbags, ranking them like brands.

We could worry about tomorrow when it came. What mattered most right now is how we would spend the remainder of today, even if it was half over.

The world had more than its share of problems for the day, just like the day before.

My life was like a dusty shelf in an old bookstore, where every volume was exactly where it had been for ages, the only discernable change being that my body has aged another ten years.

My life was like a dusty shelf in an old bookstore, where every volume was exactly where it had been for ages, the only discernible change being that my body has aged another ten years.

How many summers had I been alive? The obvious answer was as many summers as my age; but I felt the presence of another number, a different, more real number somewhere out there in the world.

Beauty meant that you were good. And being good meant being happy. Happiness can be defined all kinds of ways, but human beings, consciously or unconsciously, are always pulling for their own version of happiness. Even people who want to die see death as a kind of solace, and view ending their lives as the only way to make it there. Happiness is the base unit of consciousness, our single greatest motivator. Saying "I just want to be happy" trumps any other explanation. But who knows. Maybe Makiko had a more specific reason, not just some vague idea of how to make herself happy.

Once you get your period, that means your body can fertilize sperm. And that means you can get pregnant. And then we get more people, thinking and eating and filling up the world. It's overwhelming.

I guess that maybe people need to escape from themselves.” No one had asked me to go on, but I went on. “Or from all the stuff they carry around—the past, memories, all that. For some people, though, that kind of escape isn’t enough.

Men can be such idiots. They can't do anything around the house without making a ton of noise, not even close the fridge or turn the lights on. They can't take care of anyone else. They can't even take care of themselves. They won't do anything for their kids or their families if it means sacrificing their own comfort, but they go out in the world and act all big, like I'm such a good dad, such a provider. Idiots. This guy was unable to take any kind of criticism.

Writing makes me happy. But it goes beyond that. Writing is my life's work. I am absolutely positive that this is what I'm here to do. Even if it turns out that I don't have the ability, and no one out there wants to read a single word of it, there's nothing I can do about this feeling. I can't make it go away. I recognize that luck effort and ability are often indistinguishable. And I know that, in the end, I'm just another human being, who's born only to die. I know that in reality, it makes no difference whether I write novel, and it makes no difference if anyone cares. With all the countless books already out there, the world won't notice if I fail to publish even one book with my name on it.

They’re taught to believe that their penises make them superior, and that women are just there for them to use as they see fit. Then they go out into the world, where everything centers around them and their dicks. And it’s women who have to make it work. At the end of the day, where is this pain that men feel coming from? In their opinion: us. It’s all our fault—whether they’re unpopular, broke, jobless. Whatever it is, they blame women for all of their failures, all their problems.

No man will ever understand the things that really matter to a woman. The pain. How much it hurts to be a woman. If you say that, though, people look at you like you're throwing yourself a pity party. They'll tell you how men have a lot of pain to deal with, too...but sure. Who said they didn't? They're alive, now, aren't they? Of course they live with pain. The difference is, who's putting them through that pain? How can they make it better? Who's to blame for hurting all these men?

Not like things have changed that much, but they’re definitely better than they were. I don’t much care to think about it now. I’ll never put myself through that again, but at the same time, that was me. I genuinely believed that if I didn’t do those things, I couldn’t stand to face another day.

How many more times in my life would I sit back like this and find myself transfixed by the blue of the evening? Is this what it means to live and die alone? That you'll always be in the same place, no matter where you are? "Is that so bad?" I asked myself out loud. I don't need to tell you that no one answered.

It’s always about them. They’re only thinking about themselves. They never think about the kid being born. No one gives a damn how that child is going to feel. Isn’t that crazy? Once they’ve had a baby, most parents would do anything to shelter them from any form of pain or suffering. But here it is, the only way to actually keep your child from ever knowing pain. Don’t have them in the first place.

Is this my life? I’m glad that I can write I’m thankful for this life And all the good it’s given me But can I live like this forever? Alone Can I really be alone like this? Forever? I can’t take it — actually that’s not true, that’s a lie I’m fine on my own It’s fine, but what about you Am I really okay Not knowing you? What if I regret it? My child, unlike any other, Can I really say I’m okay Never knowing you?

The other day at school, between classes, I forget who, but someone was saying, “I was born a girl, so yeah I definitely want to have a baby of my own eventually.” Where does that come from, though? Does blood coming out of your body make you a woman? A potential mother? What makes that so great anyway? Does anyone really believe that? Just because they make us read these stupid books doesn’t make it true. I hate it so much.

I was wondering about the “men” in “menarche.” Turns out it’s the same as the “men” in “menstruation.” It means “month,” which comes from “moon,” and has to do with women and their monthly cycle. Moon has all kinds of meanings. In addition to being the thing orbiting the earth, it can involve time, or tides, like the ebb and flow of the ocean. So, “menarche” has absolutely nothing to do with “men.” So why spell it that way? What happened to the “o”?

We're always getting caught up in our problems, but what's a hundred years? Human lives are so short. The whole of human history is nothing when you stop and think about outer space. I don't think he was trying to tell me I was going to die at some point or anything like that. It wasn't about me at all. More like there would come a time when the sun would burn out, when human beings and this planet would no longer exist, but the Voyager would still be out there, drifting ever deeper into space. (p408)

Right now, that relationship defined their world – I thought that was a tidy way of putting it. That doesn't mean that it was puppy love. I mean it really changed the way they saw things, as if the strength of how they felt for one another had produced a sturdy faith in how the world would operate. When they gazed into each other's eyes, they saw a world replete with promise, strong and soft. The world was there to make their dreams come true, and they could trust without a shred of doubt that it would make good on its promises.

My hands move. My feet move. I don't know how to move them, though. It's like everything is moving all these parts. It's funny. It's like I'm in there, somewhere inside myself, and the body I'm in keeps on changing, more and more and more and more, in ways I don't even know. I wish I didn't care. But I do care. And everything is always changing. Everything gets dark, and that darkness fills my eyes more and more. I don't want to keep them open. I don't want to see. I'm afraid, though. What if I close them and I can't open them again?

[a childrearing analogy] "All the children are fast asleep. Now, in that moment, in that small house, there's no joy, no pain, no happiness, no sadness. There's nothing, because all the children are asleep. So what do you do? Wake them up or let them sleep? The choice is yours. If you wake them up, nine children will be happy that you did. They'll smile and thank you. But one won't. You know this, before you wake them up. You know that one child will feel nothing but pain from the moment they open their eyes until they finally die. Every second of that child's life will be more horrible than death itself. You know this in advance. You don't know which child it's going to be, but you know that's going to happen to one of them.

You're betting that the child that you bring into this will be at least as happy as you've been, at least as fortunate as you've been, or, at a minimum, that they'll be able to say they're happy they were born. Everyone says life is both good and bad, but the majority of people think it's mostly good. That's why people go through with it. The odds are good. Sure, everyone dies someday, but life has meaning, even pain and suffering have meaning, and there's so much joy. There's not a doubt in your mind that your child will see it that way, just like you. No one thinks they'll pull the short straw. They're convinced everything will work out fine. but that's just people believing what they want to believe. For their own benefit. The really horrible part is that this bet isn't yours to make. You're betting on another person's life. Not yours.

When I saw her with all her makeup off, I felt a little better. On the platform, I felt like I wasn’t even seeing my own sister. What a relief. I’d thought she was a walking skeleton, but she wasn’t half as skinny as I’d thought. She’s worn the wrong foundation, and way too much of it. No wonder she looked pale. Maybe she hadn’t really changed that much. It’s just that it had been so long since I had seen her. Maybe I overreacted. It had sure been a surprise, but everyone grows old, and I started thinking that maybe she looked her age after al

She reminded me of Mom. I couldn't tell if it was just in the way that daughters start to look like their mothers over time, or if the things that happened to Mom's body were happening to her now, too.

Nerozumela som jej. Ak z teba tečie krv, tak zákonite musíš byť aj žena? Matka? A čo je na tom také úžasné? To neznamená, že keď o tom píšu v tých sprostých knihách, je to zároveň pravda.

There was always someone somewhere discovering a different life, a different experience than the day before, stepping into uncharted territory. But I wasn't going anywhere.

I recognize that luck, effort, and ability are often indistinguishable.

When it happens, I’m not going to tell Mom. I’ll hide it.

Life is hard enough with just one body. Why would anyone ever want to make another one? I can’t even imagine why anyone would bother, but people think it’s the best thing ever. Do they, though? I mean, have they ever really thought about it?

I was young once, but I was never pretty. When something isn’t there, inside or out, how are you supposed to seek it out? Pretty faces, gorgeous skin. The sort of shapely breasts that anyone would kill for. I had nothing of the sort. I gave up wishing I could look like that a million years ago.

Happiness is the base unit of consciousness, our single greatest motivator.

You only know what it means to be poor, or have the right to talk about it, if you’ve been there yourself.

Once it starts, it keeps happening, for decades. How does that ever feel normal?

She reminded me of Mom. I couldn’t tell if it was just in the way that daughters start to look like their mothers over time, or if the things that happened to Mom’s body were happening to her now, too.

Whenever I say this to somebody, I can see it on their face. It's never crossed their mind that bringing a child into the world could be remotely violent. Hey, everyone loves surprise parties, right? One day you open the door, and everyone's there waiting for you, ready to surprise you. Here are all these people you've never met, never seen before, congratulating you, big smiles on their faces. Parties are different, though. You can go back through the door behind you, but when you're born, there's no leaving. There's no door.

Schön ist gut. Und macht glücklich. Glück lässt sich sicher verschieden definieren, aber jeder, bewusst oder unbewusst, will auf seine eigene Art glücklich sein. (S.62)

Wanting to be beautiful was reason enough. Beauty meant that you were good. And being good meant being happy. Happiness can be defined all kinds of ways, but human beings, consciously or unconsciously, are always pulling for their own version of happiness. Even people who want to die see death as a kind of solace, and view ending their lives as the only way to make it there. Happiness is the base unit of consciousness, our single greatest motivator. Saying "I just want to be happy" trumps any other explanation.

You only know what it means to be poor, or have the right to talk about it, if you’ve been there yourself. Maybe you’re poor now. Maybe you were poor in the past. I’m both. I was born poor, and I’m still poor.

Happiness can be defined all kinds of ways, but human beings, consciously or unconsciously, are always pulling for their own version of happiness.

We live in this place, in this world, where we can share our words but not our thoughts.