I will give you one of them, she told Tsukuru. My body or my heart. But you can't have both.

     But he had never once personally experienced those emotions.  He'd never seriously wished for talents and gifts he didn't have, or been passionately in love.  Never had he longed for, or envied, anyone.  Not to say there weren't things he was dissatisfied with, things about himself he found lacking.  If he had to, he could have listed them.  It wouldn't have been a massive list, but not just a couple of lines, either.  But those dissatisfactions and deficiencies stayed inside him--they weren't the type of emotions that motivated him to go out, somewhere else in search of answers.  At least until then. 
     In this dream, though, he burned with desire for a woman.  It wasn't clear who she was.  She was just there.  And she had a special ability to separate her body and her heart.  I will give you one of them, she told Tsukuru.  My body or my heart.  But you can't have both.  You need to chose one or the other, right now.  I'll give the other part to someone else, she said.  But Tsukuru wanted all of her.  He wasn't about to hand over half to another man.  He couldn't stand that.  If that's how it is, he wanted to tell her, I don't need either one.  But he couldn't say it.  He was stymied, unable to go forward, unable to go back.

--Haruki Murakami, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage (trans. Philip Gabriel)