Mar 30, 2026
my translation of the twenty-seventh story (of 99) of 夢で会いましょう [Meet Me in a Dream] by Haruki Murakami and Shigesato Itoi, not guaranteed to be accurate. see the intro post to read more!
K: the eleventh letter of the alphabet.
Used in a sentence: That morning K woke from troubled dreams to find himself transformed into a door mat.
That morning K woke from troubled dreams to find himself transformed into a door mat.
What’s happened to me? he thought. Of all things, I’ve become a door mat?
The first to see his new form was a co-worker.
Is this some practical joke? his co-worker asked. Are you planning some prank for the Christmas party?
No, unfortunately not. It’s real, was K’s reply.
Well, ok. No need to yuck your yum, I guess. By the way, did you fill out your transformation intakes?
Transformation intakes?
Forms. Oh man, you’ll have to. Your tax bracket’s gotta change. Your base deduction shrinks by, oh what is it, ten percent I think for door mats.
Really?
Yep, unfortunately so. If only you’d become an ironing board. They only lose like three percent of it.
The next person K spoke to was a friend, a literary critic.
Hey, I can’t help but notice, this friend asked. Are you a door mat?
Yes, indeed, I am, was K’s reply.
You can’t be serious.
Wipe your feet.
His friend did just that: he wiped his feet across K’s surface. That was that: established fact.
Anyways, why a doormat? his friend asked.
It’s not my fault.
Not your fault? That feels more Camus than Kafka.
The last person to see him was his girlfriend, who worked in publishing. She tripped over the door mat, which was him, while stepping out. She hit her head against the mailbox.
Oh, I’m sorry, she said. I’ve been up all night putting finishing touches on a manuscript. They shifted the table of contents on me last minute. Anyways, why are you a door mat?
A total escape from life, was K’s reply.
What a pity. Is there anything I can do. Might true love’s kiss transform you back?
I’ve already tried that.
Ha ha. Funny.
Anyways, that’s such a backwards thought. Are we the British? Leave me at the door of some all-girls dormitory, if you must. That the only help I can afford.
Seems simple enough. If I do, will I inherit your cassette deck?
Sure, of course.
Your Boz Scaggs and Paul David records?
I won’t need ‘em.
I’ve always liked those Hawaiian shirts you have.
Well now they’re those Hawaiian shirts that you have.
And of course, I can borrow your car…
Now and then you’ll have to change the oil in it. Oh, and get the clutch checked. It’s been making this terrible noise.
You can count on me.
So K lived happily then on ever after as the door mat at a woman’s boarding house. No office, no more literature, no publishing at all. Not so bad an ending, come to think of it.
translator's note: at some event or another i jokingly called this book a collection of literary shitposts (might have even wrote it elsewhere on this blog), and nowhere is this truer than this little lark. a kafka parody that all the sudden loses interest in itself. a structure for half-assed little jokes. i love it. i did my best to keep a sort of full indifferent tone