Tsukuru Tazaki, always cool and collected, always doing things at his own pace. 
   Tsukuru got up from the chair on the balcony and went inside. He took a bottle of Cutty dark Sark from a shelf, poured some into a glass, the carried it back out to the porch. He sat down again and, for a time, pressed the fingers of his right hand against his temple.
   No, he thought, I'm not cool and collected, and I'm not always doing things at my ow pace. It's just a question of balance. I'm just good at habitually shifting the weight I carry around from one side of the fulcrum to the other, distributing it. Maybe this strikes others as cool. But it isn't an easy operation. It takes more time than it seems. And even if I do find the right balance, that doesn't lessen the total weight one bit.
From 'Colorless Tskukuru Tazaki' (2014) by Haruki Murakami, p. 294

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