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I suppose even a woman's hatred is a kind of love.

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
Kind
Love
Suppose
Hatred
Woman
Even

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Maybe vagueness has been good for me. The word means two different things in Tokyo and Osaka, you know. In Tokyo it means stupidity, but in Osaka they talk about vagueness in a painting and in a game of Go.
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A child walked by, rolling a metal hoop that made a sound of autumn.
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I wonder what the retirement age is in the novel business. The day you die.
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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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Along the coast the sea roars, and inland the mountains roar – the roaring at the center, like a distant clap of thunder.
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Our language is primarily for expressing human goodness and beauty.
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Because you cannot see him, God is everywhere.
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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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They were words that came out of nothing, but they seemed to him somehow significant. He muttered them over again.
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The winter moon becomes a companion, the heart of the priest, sunk in meditation upon religion and philosophy, there in the mountain hall, is engaged in a delicate interplay and exchange with the moon and it is this of which the poet sings.
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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.
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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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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 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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And I can't complain. After all, only women are able really to love.
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Does pain go away and leave no trace, then?’ ‘You sometimes even feel sentimental for it.
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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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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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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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Lunatics have no age. If we were crazy, you and I, we might be a great deal younger.
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