“You know, when you think about it, that’s kind of a weird thing. I mean it’s meant to be sympathetic, right? But it’s kind of not. Like you’re telling the person there’s nothing unique about what they’re sayingI considered this as a couple of kids on Rollerblades whizzed past, hockey sticks over their shoulders. “Yeah,” I said, finally, “but you could also look at it the other way. Like no matter how bad things are for you, I can still relate.”

“but you could also look at it the other way. Like you’re saying no matter how bad things are for you, I can still relate.”

“You know, Lockie,’ she said aloud.‘What?’‘The thing about parents is . . . the thing about good parents — and I think your parents are pretty good . . .’‘Yeah, Mum makes cakes, amazing cakes, and Dad takes me fishing even when there’s work to do. They’re good parents, my mum and dad. But . . . but they didn’t find me.’‘I know, Lockie, but I promise they were looking. When we get you home they’ll tell you. I promise they were looking.’‘I should have stayed by the stroller. Maybe they’re mad and that’s why they didn’t look. Maybe they know I’m a bad boy.’ ‘You are not bad, Lockie,’ said Tina. She said the words slowly, patiently. ‘You are not bad and your parents sound like they’re pretty good parents. And you know . . . well, the thing about good parents is that they kind of love you no matter what.’‘No matter what?’‘Yeah, whatever happens, whatever you do, they still love you. Sometimes they shout when you do stuff they don’t like but they always love you.’‘What if the stuff you do is really bad?’‘They’ll still love you. That’s their job.’‘No, I mean what if the stuff you did is really, really bad?’‘It doesn’t matter, Lockie. You’re just a kid. Nothing you could do could be that bad.’‘You don’t know what bad is,’ said Lockie, and then he repeated the words to himself. ‘You don’t know what bad is.”

“It’s weird how much people change...It’s kind of sad, if you think about it. Like there’s no continuity in people at all. Like something ruptures when you hit twelve, or thirteen, or whatever the age is when you’re no longer a kid but a “young adult,” and after that you’re a totally different person. Maybe even a less happy person. Maybe even a worse one.”

“Tell me something, Mari—do you believe in reincarnation?” Mari shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so,” she says. “So you don’t think there’s a life to come?” “I haven’t thought much about it. But it seems to me there’s no reason to believe in a life after this one.” “So once you’re dead there’s just nothing?”“Basically.”“Well, I think there has to be something like reincarnation. Or maybe I should say I’m scared to think there isn’t. I can’t understand nothingness. I can’t understand it and I can’t imagine it.” “Nothingness means there’s absolutely nothing, so maybe there’s no need to understand it or imagine it.” “Yeah, but what if nothingness is not like that? What if it’s the kind of thing that demands that you understand it or imagine it? I mean, you don’t know what it’s like to die, Mari. Maybe a person really has to die to understand what it’s like.” “Well, yeah…,” says Mari. “I get so scared when I start thinking about this stuff,” Korogi says. “I can hardly breathe, and my whole body wants to shrink into a corner. It’s so much easier to just believe in reincarnation. You might be reborn as something awful, but at least you can imagine what you’d look like—a horse, say, or a snail. And even if it was something bad, you might be luckier next time.”

“I think there’s no greater joy than completing a song out of thin air. It’s like inventing something, but it’s invisible, you know? It’s weird. It amazes me. You can send it out in the world, and that’s the joy. It’s like giving birth to all these songs and letting them go like they’re your kids.”