After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance



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Maybe I can 
look at it this way—the problem is not with me but with the world around me. It’s not 
that my consciousness or mind has given rise to some abnormality, but rather that 
some kind of incomprehensible power has caused the world around me to change

The more she thought about it, the more natural her second hypothesis began to 
feel to her because, no matter how much she searched for it, she could not find in 
herself a gap or distortion in her mind. 
And so she carried this hypothesis forward: 
It’s not me but the world that’s deranged

Yes, that settles it



101
At some point in time, the world I knew either vanished or withdrew, and another 
world came to take its place. Like the switching of a track. In other words, my mind, 
here and now, belongs to the world that was, but the world itself has already changed 
into something else. So far, the actual changes carried out in that process are limited 
in number. Most of the new world has been retained from the world I knew, which is 
why the changes have presented (virtually) no impediments to my daily life—so far. 
But the changes that have already taken place will almost certainly create other, 
greater, differences around me as time goes by. Those differences will expand little by 
little and will, in some cases, destroy the logicality of the actions I take. They could 
well cause me to commit errors that are—for me—literally fatal

Parallel worlds

Aomame scowled as if she had bitten into something horribly sour, though the 
scowl was not as extreme as the earlier one. She started tapping her ballpoint pen 
against her teeth again, and released a deep groan. The high school student behind her 
heard it rattle in her throat, but this time pretended not to hear. 
This is starting to sound like science fiction

Am I just making up a self-serving hypothesis as a form of self-defense? Maybe it’s 
just that I’ve gone crazy. I see my own mind as perfectly normal, as free of distortion. 
But don’t all mental patients insist that they are perfectly fine and it’s the world 
around them that is crazy? Aren’t I just proposing the wild hypothesis of parallel 
worlds as a way to justify my own madness?
This calls for the detached opinion of a third party

But going to a psychiatrist for analysis is out of the question. The situation is far 
too complicated for that, and there’s too much that I can’t talk about. Take my recent 
“work,” for example, which, without a doubt, is against the law. I mean, I’ve been 
secretly killing men with a homemade ice pick. I couldn’t possibly tell a doctor about 
that, even if the men themselves have been utterly despicable, twisted individuals

Even supposing I could successfully conceal my illegal activities, the legal parts of 
the life I’ve led since birth could hardly be called normal, either. My life is like a 
trunk stuffed with dirty laundry. It contains more than enough material to drive any 
one human being to mental aberration—maybe two or three people’s worth. My sex 
life alone would do. It’s nothing I could talk about to anyone

No, I can’t go to a doctor. I have to solve this on my own

Let me pursue this hypothesis a little further if I can

If something like this has actually happened—if, that is, this world I’m standing in 
now has in fact taken the place of the old one—then when, where, and how did the 
switching of the tracks occur, in the most concrete sense?
Aomame made another concentrated effort to work her way back through her 
memory. 
She had first become aware of the changes in the world a few days earlier, when 
she took care of the oil field development specialist in a hotel room in Shibuya. She 
had left her taxi on the elevated Metropolitan Expressway No. 3, climbed down an 
emergency escape stairway to Route 246, changed her stockings, and headed for 
Sangenjaya Station on the Tokyu Line. On the way to the station, she passed a young 
policeman and noticed for the first time that something about his appearance was 
different. 
That’s when it all started. Which means the world switched tracks just 


102
before that. The policeman I saw near home that morning was wearing the same old 
uniform and carrying an old-fashioned revolver

Aomame recalled the odd sensation she had felt when she heard the opening of 
Janá
č
ek’s 
Sinfonietta
in the taxi caught in traffic. She had experienced it as a kind of 
physical 
wrenching
, as if the components of her body were being wrung out like a 
rag. 
Then the driver told me about the Metropolitan Expressway’s emergency 
stairway. I took off my high heels and climbed down. The entire time I climbed down 
that precarious stairway in my stocking feet with the wind tearing at me, the opening 
fanfare of Janá
č
ek’s
Sinfonietta 
echoed on and off in my ears. That may have been 
when it started
, she thought. 
There had been something strange about that taxi driver, too. Aomame still 
remembered his parting words. She reproduced them as precisely as she could in her 
mind: 

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