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The road was frozen. The village lay quiet under the cold sky. Komako hitched up the skirt of her kimono and tucked it into her obi. The moon shone like a blade frozen in blue ice.

Yasunari Kawabata

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Yasunari Kawabata
Age: 72 †
Born: 1899
Born: June 11
Died: 1972
Died: April 16
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Ōsaka
Cold
Ice
Hitched
Like
Village
Tucked
Lays
Shone
Sky
Skirt
Road
Blade
Blue
Skirts
Moon
Blades
Kimono
Quiet
Frozen
Kimonos

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Seeing the moon, he becomes the moon, the moon seen by him becomes him. He sinks into nature, becomes one with nature. The light of the clear heart of the priest, seated in the meditation hall in the darkness before the dawn, becomes for the dawn moon its own light.
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From the way of Go the beauty of Japan and the Orient had fled. Everything had become science and regulation.
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Cosmic time is the same for everyone, but human time differs with each person. Time flows in the same way for all human beings every human being flows through time in a different way.
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Our language is primarily for expressing human goodness and beauty.
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People have separated from each other with walls of concrete that blocked the roads to connection and love. and Nature has been defeated in the name of development.
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Put your soul in the palm of my hand for me to look at, like a crystal jewel. I'll sketch it in words.
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The labor into which a heart has poured its whole love--where will it have its say, to excite and inspire, and when?
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Now, even more than the evening before, he could think of no one with whom to compare her. She had become absolute, beyond comparison. She had become decision and fate.
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But, drawn to her at that moment, he felt a quiet like the voice of the rain flow over him. He knew well enough that for her it was in fact no waste of effort, but somehow the final determination that it was had the effect of distilling and purifying the woman's existence.
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The snow on the distant mountains was soft and creamy, as if veiled in a faint smoke.
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THE TRAIN came out of the long tunnel into the snow country.
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It's remarkable how we go on year after year, doing the same old things. We get tired and bored, and ask when they'll come for us
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They were words that came out of nothing, but they seemed to him somehow significant. He muttered them over again.
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Because you cannot see him, God is everywhere.
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Lunatics have no age. If we were crazy, you and I, we might be a great deal younger.
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I wonder what the retirement age is in the novel business. The day you die.
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And I can't complain. After all, only women are able really to love.
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A poetess who had died young of cancer had said in one of her poems that for her, on sleepless nights, 'the night offers toads and black dogs and corpses of the drowned.
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A secret, if it's kept, can be sweet and comforting, but once it leaks out it can turn on you with a vengeance.
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But a haiku by Buson came into his mind: 'I try to forget this senile love a chilly autumn shower.' The gloom only grew denser.
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