He inherited from his mother's stories the fundamental style he used, unaltered, in his own stories: namely… — Haruki Murakami

But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at 4 o'clock in the morning.

Money had no name of course. And if it did have a name, it would no longer be money. What gave money its true meaning was its dark-night namelessness, its breathtaking interchangeability.

Grammar is like the air: someone higher up might try to set rules for its use, but people won't necessarily follow them.