In our own lives the voice of God speaks slowly, a syllable at a time. Reaching the peak of years, dispelling some of our intimate illusions and learning how to spell the meaning of life-experiences backwards, some of us discover how the scattered syllables form a single phrase.

But no one gets lost - the hand of the merciful God always lies on the heads of courageous men and women, those who dare to be different because they believe in their dreams.

rubbing the ointment into the creases of his knuckles, massaging

He didn't seem to have suffered. His face looked very peaceful. It was like - a windless day at the end of autumn, when a single leaf falls from a tree. But maybe that's not a good way to put it.

Written By Haruki Murakami

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