Excerpt from the forthcoming Haruki Murakami book "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" translated by Philip Gabriel. From the Guardian UK
Somerset Maugham once wrote that in each shave lies a philosophy. I couldn't agree more. No matter how mundane some action might appear, keep at it long enough and it becomes a contemplative, even meditative act. Perhaps I'm just too painstaking a type of person, but I can't grasp much of anything without putting down my thoughts in writing, so I had to actually get my hands working and write these words. Otherwise, I'd never know what running means to me.
Once, I was lying around a hotel room in Paris reading the International Herald Tribune when I came across an article on the marathon. There were interviews with several famous runners, and they were asked what mantra goes through their head to keep themselves pumped during a race. One runner told of a mantra his older brother, also a runner, had taught him which he's pondered ever since. Here it is: "Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional." Say you're running and you start to think, Man this hurts, I can't take it any more. The hurt part is an unavoidable reality, but whether or not you can stand any more is up to the runner himself. This pretty much sums up the most important aspect of marathon running.
I'm on Kauai, in Hawaii, today, Friday August 5 2005. It's unbelievably clear and sunny, not a cloud in the sky. As if the concept of clouds doesn't even exist. I came here at the end of July and, as always, we rented a condo. I spend a lot of time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and compared with Cambridge - so muggy and hot with all its bricks and concrete it's like a form of torture - summer in Hawaii is a veritable paradise.
Since I arrived in Hawaii I've run for about an hour every day, six days a week. Today I ran for an hour and 10 minutes, listening on my Walkman to two albums by the Lovin' Spoonful - Daydream and Hums Of The Lovin' Spoonful - which I'd recorded on a MiniDisc.
Right now I'm aiming at increasing the distance I run, so speed is less of an issue. As long as I can run a certain distance, that's all I care about. Sometimes I run fast when I feel like it, but if I increase the pace I shorten the amount of time I run, the point being to let the exhilaration I feel at the end of each run carry over to the next day. This is the same sort of tack I find necessary when writing a novel. I stop every day right at the point where I feel I can write more. Do that, and the next day's work goes surprisingly smoothly. I think Ernest Hemingway did something like that. To keep on going, you have to keep up the rhythm.
I started running in the fall of 1982 and have been running since then for nearly 23 years. Over this period I've jogged almost every day, run in at least one marathon every year - 23 up till now - and participated in more long-distance races all around the world than I care to count.
The thing is, I'm not much for team sports. Don't misunderstand me - I'm not totally uncompetitive. It's just that for some reason I've never cared all that much whether I beat others or lose to them. So in this sense long-distance running is the perfect fit for a mindset like mine. Most ordinary runners are motivated by an individual goal: namely, a time they want to beat. As long as he can beat that time, a runner will feel he's accomplished what he set out to do.
The same can be said about my profession. In the novelist's profession, as far as I'm concerned, there's no such thing as winning or losing. Maybe numbers of copies sold, awards won and critics' praise serve as outward standards for accomplishment in literature, but none of them really matters. What's crucial is whether your writing attains the standards you've set for yourself. In this sense, writing novels and running full marathons are very much alike. For me, running is both exercise and a metaphor. I'm at an ordinary - or perhaps more like mediocre - level. But that's not the point. The point is whether or not I improved over yesterday. In long-distance running the only opponent you have to beat is yourself, the way you used to be.
Since my 40s, though, this system of self-assessment has gradually changed. Simply put, I am no longer able to improve my time. I guess it's inevitable. At a certain age everybody reaches their physical peak. There are individual differences, but for the most part swimmers hit that watershed in their early 20s, boxers in their late 20s and baseball players in their mid-30s. (Fortunately, the peak for artists varies considerably. Dostoevsky, for instance, wrote two of his most profound novels, The Possessed and The Brothers Karamazov, in the last few years of his life before his death at age 60. Domenico Scarlatti wrote 555 piano sonatas during his lifetime, most of them when he was between the ages of 57 and 62.)
In July I ran 186 miles. The farther I ran, the more weight I lost, too. In two and a half months I dropped about seven pounds, and the bit of flab I was starting to see around my stomach disappeared. Picture going to the butcher's, buying seven pounds of meat, and carrying it home. You get the idea. I had mixed emotions about carrying around that extra weight with me every day. If you live in Boston, Samuel Adams draft beer (Summer Ale) and Dunkin' Donuts are essentials of life. But I discovered to my delight that even these indulgences can be offset by persistent exercise.
I find spending an hour or two every day running alone, not speaking to anyone, as well as four or five hours alone at my desk, to be neither difficult nor boring. I've had this tendency ever since I was young, when, given a choice, I much preferred reading books on my own or concentrating on listening to music than being with someone else.
Even so, after I got married at an early age (I was 22) I gradually got used to living with someone else. After I left college I ran a bar, so I learned the importance of being with others and the obvious point that we can't survive on our own. Gradually, then, though perhaps with my own spin on it, through personal experience I discovered how to be sociable. During my 20s my world-view changed, and I matured. By sticking my nose into all sorts of places, I acquired the practical skills I needed to live. Without those 10 tough years I don't think I would have written novels, and even if I'd tried, I wouldn't have been able to. But the desire in me to be alone hasn't changed. Which is why the hour or so I spend running, maintaining my own silent, private time, is important for my mental wellbeing.
When I'm criticised unjustly (from my viewpoint, at least), or when someone I'm sure will understand me doesn't, I go running for a little longer than usual. By running longer it's like I can physically exhaust that portion of my discontent. It also makes me realise again how weak I am, how limited my abilities are. And one of the results of running a little farther than usual is that I become that much stronger. If I'm angry, I direct that anger toward myself. If I have a frustrating experience, I use that to improve myself. That's the way I've always lived. I quietly absorb the things I'm able to, releasing them later, and in as changed a form as possible, as part of the storyline in a novel.
I don't think most people would like my personality. There might be a few - very few, I would imagine - who are impressed by it, but only rarely would anyone like it. Who in the world could possibly have warm feelings for a person who doesn't compromise, who instead, whenever a problem crops up, locks himself away alone in a closet? But is it ever possible for a professional writer to be liked by people? For me, at least, being disliked by someone, hated and despised, somehow seems more natural. Not that I'm relieved when that happens. Even I'm not happy when someone dislikes me.
But that's another story. Let's get back to running. Yesterday was the last day of August. During this month, I ran a total of 217 miles. My goal is the New York marathon on November 6. I've had to make some adjustments to prepare for it; so far, so good. I started a set running schedule five months ahead of time, increasing, in stages, the distance. I feel in good shape, so even though I'm gradually increasing the distance I run, my body hasn't complained. I've shed a few pounds, and my face looks more toned. It's a nice feeling to see your body going through these changes, though they certainly don't happen as quickly as when I was young. The gym where I work out in Tokyo has a poster that says, "Muscles are hard to get and easy to lose. Fat is easy to get and hard to lose." A painful reality, but a reality all the same.
Now that it's September and the race is two months away, my training is entering a period of fine-tuning. Through modulated exercise - sometimes long, sometimes short, sometimes soft, sometimes hard - I'm transitioning from quantity of exercise to quality. The point is to reach the peak of exhaustion about a month before the race, so this is a critical period.
I'd really rather not talk about this - I'd much prefer to hide it away in the back of the closet - but the last time I ran a full marathon it was awful. I've run a lot of races, but never one that ended up so badly.
This race took place in Chiba Prefecture. Up to around the 18th mile I was going along at a good enough clip, and I was sure I'd run a decent time. I had plenty of stamina left, so I was positive I could finish the race with no problem. But just as I was thinking this, my legs suddenly stopped following orders. They began to cramp up, and it got so bad I couldn't run any more. I had to walk. Up till then I'd made it a point of pride that no matter how hard things might get, I never walked.
About a mile from the finish line my cramps finally let up and I was able to run again. I slowly jogged for a while until I got back in form, then sped down the home stretch as hard I could.
There are three reasons I failed. Not enough training. Not enough training. And not enough training. Right then and there I decided that before my next marathon I was going to go back to the basics, start from scratch, and do the very best I could. This may be the reason why, while I'm training for my next marathon - the New York City marathon - I'm also writing this.
September 19 2005, Tokyo
On September 10 I bid farewell to Kauai and return to Japan for a two-week stay. I haven't been back in Japan for a while, so there's lots of work waiting to keep me busy, and people to meet. I've also been intentionally training on hills. Near my house is a nice series of slopes with an elevation change equivalent to about a five- or six-storey building, and on one run I rounded this loop 21 times. It was a terribly muggy day, and it wore me out.
The final leg of this marathon is in Central Park, and right after the park entrance there are some sharp changes in elevation that always slow me down. When I'm out for a morning jog in Central Park, they're just gentle slopes, but in the final leg of the marathon, they're like a wall standing there in front of the runner. This is the point where my legs start to scream.
While I've been in Japan a new short-story collection of mine, Strange Tales From Tokyo, has come out, and I have to do several interviews about the book. I also have to check the galleys for a book of music criticism that's coming out in November. Then I have to go over my old translations of Raymond Carver's complete works. On top of this, I have to write a long introduction to the short-story collection Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman, which will be published next year in the US. I have to take care of all these as best I can, and keep up my running.
You naturally learn both concentration and endurance when you sit down every day at your desk and train yourself to focus on one point. This is a lot like the training of muscles. And gradually you'll expand the limits of what you're able to do. Almost imperceptibly you'll make the bar rise.
In private correspondence the great mystery writer Raymond Chandler once confessed that even if he didn't write anything, he made sure he sat down at his desk every single day and concentrated. I understand the purpose behind his doing this. This is the way Chandler gave himself the physical stamina a professional writer needs, quietly strengthening his willpower.
Writing novels, to me, is basically a kind of manual labour. Writing is itself mental labour, but finishing an entire book is closer to manual labour. It doesn't involve heavy lifting, running fast, or leaping high. But once you try your hand at it, you soon find that it isn't as peaceful a job as it seems. The whole process - sitting at your desk, focusing your mind like a laser beam, imagining something out of a blank horizon, creating a story, selecting the right words, one by one, keeping the whole flow of the story on track - requires far more energy, over a long period, than most people ever imagine.
Most of what I know about writing I've learned through running every day. How much can I push myself? How much rest is appropriate - and how much is too much? How far can I take something and still keep it decent and consistent? When does it become narrow-minded and inflexible? How much should I be aware of the world outside, and how much should I focus on my inner world? To what extent should I be confident in my abilities, and when should I start doubting myself? I know that if I hadn't become a long-distance runner when I became a novelist, my work would have been vastly different.
In any event, I'm happy I haven't stopped running all these years. The reason is, I like the novels I've written.
October 3 2005, Cambridge, Massachusetts
The special New England fall - short and lovely - fades in and out, and finally settles in. Little by little the deep, overwhelming green that surrounds us gives way to a faint yellow. By the time I need to wear sweatpants over my running shorts, dead leaves are swirling in the wind and acorns are hitting the asphalt with a hard, dry crack.
It's just over a month until the New York City marathon. About time I cut back on the mileage and get rid of the exhaustion I've built up. Time to start tapering off. Fatigue has built up after all this training, and I can't seem to run very fast. As I'm jogging along the Charles river, girls who look to be new Harvard freshmen keep on passing me. Most of these girls are small, slim, have on maroon Harvard-logo outfits, blond hair in a ponytail, and brand new iPods, and they run like the wind. You can definitely feel a sort of aggressive challenge emanating from them. They seem to be used to passing people, and probably not used to being passed. They all look so bright, so healthy, attractive and serious, brimming with self-confidence. With their long strides and strong, sharp kicks, it's easy to see that they're typical mid-distance runners, unsuited for long-distance running. They're more mentally cut out for brief runs at high speed.
Compared with them I'm pretty used to losing. There are plenty of things in this world that are way beyond me, plenty of opponents I can never beat. Not to brag, but these girls probably don't know as much as I do about pain.
Have I ever had such luminous days in my own life? Perhaps a few. But even if I had a long ponytail back then, I doubt it would have swung so proudly as these girls' ponytails do. And my legs wouldn't have kicked the ground as cleanly and powerfully as theirs. Maybe that's only to be expected. These girls are, after all, brand-new students at the one and only Harvard University.
As I run in the morning along the river, I often see the same people at the same time. One is a short Indian woman out for a stroll. She's in her 60s, I imagine, has elegant features, and is always impeccably dressed. Strangely - though maybe it's not so strange after all - she wears a different outfit every day. One time she had on an elegant sari, another time an oversize sweatshirt with a university's name on it. If memory serves, I've never seen her wearing the same outfit twice. Waiting to see what clothes she has on is one of the small pleasures of each early-morning run.
Yesterday, I listened to the Rolling Stones' Beggars Banquet as I ran. That funky "Hoo hoo" chorus in Sympathy For The Devil is the perfect accompaniment to running.
On October 6, I'm giving a reading at Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and since I'll have to speak in front of people, today as I ran I practised the speech (not out loud, of course). When I'm in Japan I rarely have to speak in front of people. I don't give any talks. In English, though, I've given a number of talks. It's strange, but in front of an audience I find it more comfortable to use my far-from-perfect English than Japanese. I think this is because when I have to speak seriously about something in Japanese I'm overcome with the feeling of being swallowed up in a sea of words. There's an infinite number of choices for me, infinite possibilities. Once I try to put together a talk in a foreign language, though, inevitably my linguistic choices and possibilities are limited: much as I love reading books in English, speaking in English is definitely not my forte. But that makes me feel all the more comfortable giving a speech. I just think, it's a foreign language, so what're you going do?
Running is a great activity to do while memorising a speech. As, almost unconsciously, I move my legs, I line the words up in order in my mind. I measure the rhythm of the sentences, the way they'll sound. One more month until the New York City marathon.
October 7 2005, Cambridge, Massachusetts
As if to lament the defeat of the Boston Red Sox in the playoffs (they lost every game in a Sox v Sox series with Chicago), for 10 days afterwards a cold rain fell on New England. A long autumn rain.
Even though I'm not doing much running, my knee has started to hurt. Like most of the troubles in life it came on without any warning. On the morning of October 17, I started to walk down the stairs in our building and my right knee buckled. When I twisted it in a certain direction the kneecap hurt in a peculiar way, different from an everyday ache. I had to hold on to the railing to get downstairs.
My body tends to have problems during these transitions from one season to another, something that never happened when I was young. The main problem is when it gets cold and damp. Several times in the past, my right knee has felt strange (it's always the right knee), but I've always been able to soothe it and keep it going. So my knee should be OK now too, right?
This isn't connected to running, but my daily life in Cambridge isn't going that smoothly. The building we're living in is undergoing some major remodelling, and during the day all you hear are drills and grinders. Every day is an endless procession of workmen passing by outside our fourth-storey window. The construction work starts at 7.30am, when it's still a little dark outside, and continues until 3.30pm. They made some mistake in the drainage work on the veranda above us, and our apartment got totally wet from the rain leaking in. Rain even got our bed wet. We mobilised every pot and pan we had, but still it wasn't enough to catch all the water dripping down. And as if this weren't enough, the boiler gave out, and we had to do without hot water and heating. That wasn't all. Something was wrong with the smoke detector in the hall, and the alarm blared all the time. So altogether, every day was pretty noisy.
Still, I can't spend all my time complaining. I've got work to do, and the marathon's fast approaching. I'm going to try to be optimistic about things.
One other project I'm involved in now is translating F Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, and things are going well. I've finished the first draft and am revising the second. I'm taking my time, going over each line carefully, and as I do so the translation gets smoother and I'm better able to render Fitzgerald's prose into more natural Japanese. It's a little strange, perhaps, to make this claim at such a late date, but Gatsby really is an outstanding novel. I never get tired of it, no matter how many times I read it. It's the kind of literature that nourishes you as you read, and every time I do I'm struck by something new, and experience a fresh reaction to it. I find it amazing how such a young writer, only 29 at the time, could grasp - so insightfully, so equitably, and so warmly - the realities of life. How was this possible? The more I think about it, and the more I read the novel, the more mysterious it all is.
October 27. Today I was finally able to run at about 80% without any strange sensations in my knee. It was no problem at all. My feet hit the pavement hard, and my knees didn't buckle. The danger is over. Probably.
October 29, the marathon a week away. In the morning it started snowing off and on, and by the afternoon it was a full-scale snowfall. Summer wasn't all that long ago, I thought, impressed. My legs aren't so tired any more, and I feel like I want to run even more. Still, I feel a bit uneasy. Has the dark shadow really disappeared? Or is it inside me, concealed, waiting for its chance to reappear? Like a clever thief hidden inside a house, breathing quietly, waiting until everyone's asleep.
I check on the reservation at our hotel on Central Park South and buy our plane tickets from Boston to New York. I pack my running outfit and shoes, which I've broken in pretty well, in a gym bag. Now all that's left is to rest and wait for the day of the race.
As planned, in November 2005, I ran the New York City marathon. It was a beautiful, sunny autumn day, the kind of wonderful day when you expect to see the late Mel Tormé appear out of nowhere, leaning against a piano as he croons out a verse from Autumn In New York. That morning, along with tens of thousands of other runners, I started the race at the Verrazano bridge on Staten Island; moved through Brooklyn, where the writer Mary Morris is always waiting to cheer me on; then through Queens; through Harlem and the Bronx; and several hours and bridges later arrived at the finish line, near the Tavern on the Green in Central Park.
And how was my time? Truth be told, not so great. At least, not as good as I'd been secretly hoping for. If possible, I was hoping to be able to wind this up with a powerful statement like, "Thanks to all the hard training I did, I was able to post a great time at the New York City marathon. When I finished I was really moved," and casually stroll off into the sunset with the theme song from Rocky blaring in the background. Until I actually ran the race I still clung to the hope that things would turn out that way, and was looking forward to this dramatic finale. That was my Plan A.
Before the race I was in great shape, I thought, and well rested. The strange sensation I'd had on the inside of my knee had vanished. My legs, especially around my calves, still felt a bit tired, but it wasn't something I needed to worry about (or so I thought). My training schedule had gone smoothly, better than for any other race before. So I had this hope (or moderate conviction) that I'd post the best time I'd run in recent years.
At the start line I followed the pacemaker with the three hours 45 minutes placard. I was sure I could definitely make that time. That might have been a mistake. Looking back on it, I should have followed the three hour and 55 minute pacemaker, and picked up the pace later, and only if I was sure I could handle it. But something else was pushing me on: you practised as hard as you could in all that heat, didn't you? If you can't make this time, then what's the point? You're a man, aren't you? Start acting like one! This voice whispered in my ear, just like the voices of the cunning cat and fox that tempted Pinocchio on his way to school.
Up to mile 16 I was able to keep up with the pacemaker, but after that it was impossible. It was hard to admit this to myself, but gradually my legs wouldn't move, so my speed started to fall off. The three hours 50 minutes banner passed me by. This was the worst possible scenario. No matter what, I couldn't let the four-hour pacemaker pass me.
After I crossed the Fifth Avenue bridge and started down the wide, straight path from Uptown to Central Park, I began to feel a little better and had a faint hope that I was getting back on track, but this was shortlived, for right when I entered Central Park and was facing the infamous gradual slope, I started getting a cramp in my right calf. It wasn't so awful that I had to stop, but the pain forced me to run at nearly a walking pace. The crowd around me kept urging me on, shouting, "Go! Go!" and I wanted nothing more than to keep on running, but I couldn't control my legs any more.
So in the end I missed the four-hour mark by just a little. I did complete the run, after a fashion, which means I maintained my record of completing every marathon I've been in. I was able to do the bare minimum, but it was a frustrating result after all my hard training and meticulous planning. It felt like the remnant of a dark cloud had wormed its way into my stomach. Maybe I'm simply getting older.
There's one thing, though, I can state with confidence: until the feeling that I've done a good job in a race returns, I'm going to keep running marathons, and not let it get me down. Even when I grow old and feeble, when people warn me it's about time to throw in the towel, I won't care. As long as my body allows, I'll keep on running.
I may not hear the Rocky theme song, or see the sunset anywhere, but for me, this may be a sort of conclusion. An understated, rainy-day-sneakers sort of conclusion. An anticlimax, if you will. Turn it into a screenplay, and the Hollywood producer would just glance at the last page and toss it back. But the long and the short of it is that this kind of conclusion fits who I am. What I mean is, I didn't start running because somebody asked me to become a runner. Just like I didn't become a novelist because someone asked me to. One day, out of the blue, I wanted to write a novel. And one day, out of the blue, I started to run. Simply because I wanted to.
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Why do you run, when did you start?
I began running on an everyday basis after I became a writer. As being a writer requires sitting at a desk for hours a day, without getting some exercise you'd quickly get out of shape and gain weight, I figured. That was 22 years ago. I also took it as a chance to quit smoking. You see, I became rapidly healthier since the time I became a writer. You may call it rather a rare case. But because of that, I weigh now just as much as I weighed back then.
Before I became a writer, I was running a jazz bar in the center of Tokyo, which means that I worked in filthy air all the time late into the night. I was very excited when I started making a living out of my writing, and I decided, "I will live in nothing but an absolutely healthy way." Getting up at 5 a.m. every morning, doing some work first, then going off running. It was very refreshing for me.
I have always liked running, so it wasn't particularly difficult to make it a habit. All you need is a pair of running shoes and you can do it anywhere. It does not require anybody to do it with, and so I found the sport perfectly fits me as a person who tends to be independent and individualistic.
How much do you run? Do you do straight mileage or any speedwork?
My goal was always doing about 60K per week: 6 days a week, 10K a day on average. Some days I run more, some days less. It depends. If it is not before a race, I run at a moderate pace at which I feel easy and comfortable. If it's training for a race, I sometimes focus on speed. But otherwise I usually just try to enjoy myself at a casual pace.
I should add, though, that since I also enter triathlons these days, I have added biking and swimming to my workouts. As such, I am now running only 3 or 4 days a week.
You are moving to Boston soon and have run in Boston before. Where do you usually run in Boston?
I've run the Boston Marathon 6 times before. I think the best aspects of the marathon are the beautiful changes of the scenery along the route and the warmth of the people's support. I feel happier every time I enter this marathon.
As far as my experience goes, Boston is the most appealing marathon.
(Of course the New York City Marathon is also very exciting, but in a different way). The challenge is how to set your pace. It's tricky because there are many downhill slopes in the beginning part of the course, so I never know how fast I should go. No matter how many times I challenge the same course, there has never been a time I thought to myself "Yeah, that was the way to do it!"
However, no matter how challenging the race was, crossing the finish line at the Copley Plaza, going to Legal Sea Foods restaurant, eating steamed cherry stones and drinking Samuel Adams beer is one of the happiest moments of my life.
I used to run along the Charles River when I lived in the area before. I really like the course, though it can get really cold in the winter.
Where is your favorite run anywhere in the world, and why?
My favorite run anywhere in the world? I recall when I lived on a small island in Greece. Because I was the only jogger on that island there was inevitably someone who would call out, saying "Why are you running?", "Isn't that bad for your heath?" or "Don't you want to stop for a shot of Ouzo?" It was quite amusing.
I read that you ran every day while writing Kafka on the Shore. Do you work out plots and dialogue while running? How does running affect your writing?
I try not to think about anything special while running. As a matter of fact, I usually run with my mind empty. However, when I run empty-minded, something naturally and abruptly crawls in sometime. That might become an idea that can help me with my writing.
However, in general, I try to get my mind relaxed and rested while running by not thinking about anything. I run to cool down my nerves that get heated up while writing.
Do you listen to jazz or any other kind of music?
I normally listen to rock while running. I found that the simpler the rhythm, the better. For example, Creedence Clearwater Revival, John Mellencamp or The Beach Boys. I record this music on MD disks so I can listen to them with my Walkman on my run. There was this one time when I tried a 100K ultramarathon, I was tempted to listen to Mozart's Magic Flute from the beginning to the end, but I gave up on it in the middle of the course. It was exhausting. Since then I found opera not to be a good fit for running.
You have expressed interest in running the New York Marathon again. What was the experience of running New York like for you before? What were the best and worst parts of the New York race?
I've run the New York City Marathon 3 times so far. The great thing about the marathon is the fact that I can do sight seeing in that unique and gigantic city while running on my own two feet, taking all that time, to my heart's content.
On the course, there are truly amazing and diverse areas; each with its unique people and cultures--this scene and feel is only possible in New York. Also, I hit my best time in the New York City Marathon.
There is one problem with the marathon, though. You have to put up with the chill while waiting at the starting line, shivering, for a long time in the frigid breeze.
As someone who has run a marathon a year for over 20 years, will you continue to do so? How has the experience of running (in marathons and daily) changed for you over the years?
As long as possible, I would really like to complete one marathon per year. Though my time has been slowing down as I get older, it has become a very important part of my life.
One aspect that I have gained from running in the past 22 years that has most pleased me is that it has helped me develop respect about my own physical being.
I think to realize this is very important for all human beings.
To have such respect for your own body makes it possible to do the same for others. If more people on the earth shared this same feeling, there should be no terrorism or wars. Obviously, to our great disappointment, things are not that simple, that much I understand.
The most important qualities to be a fiction writer are probably imaginative ability, intelligence, and focus. But in order to maintain these qualities in a high and constant level, you must never neglect to keep up your physical strength.
Without a solid base of physical strength, you can't accomplish anything very intricate or demanding. That's my belief. If I did not keep running, I think my writing would be very different from what it is now.
Novelist Haruki Murakami to Runners World 2005
