Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World  by  Haruki Murakami

Once again, life had a lesson to teach me: It takes years to build up, it takes moments to destroy

But like a boat with a twisted rudder, I kept coming back to the same place. I wasn't going anywhere. I was myself, waiting on the shore for me to return.
Was that so depressing?
Who knows? Maybe that was 'despair.' What Turgenev called 'disillusionment.' Or Dostoyevsky, 'hell.' Or Somerset Maugham, 'reality.' Whatever the label, I figured it was me

Losing you is most difficult for me, but the nature of my love for you is what matters. If it distorts into half-truth, then perhaps it is better not to love you. I must keep my mind but loose you.

Genius or fool, you don't live in the world alone. You can hide underground or you can build a wall around yourself, but somebody's going to come along and screw up the works

I wasn't particularly afraid of death itself. As Shakespeare said, die this year and you don't have to die the next

Most human activities are predicated on the assumption that life goes on. If you take that premise away, what is there left?