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And I can't complain. After all, only women are able really to 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
Complaining
Women
Able
Really
Love
Complain

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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, 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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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 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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THE TRAIN came out of the long tunnel into the snow country.
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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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Lunatics have no age. If we were crazy, you and I, we might be a great deal younger.
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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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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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They were words that came out of nothing, but they seemed to him somehow significant. He muttered them over again.
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I suppose even a woman's hatred is a kind of love.
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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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Because you cannot see him, God is everywhere.
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I wonder what the retirement age is in the novel business. The day you die.
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A child walked by, rolling a metal hoop that made a sound of autumn.
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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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Our language is primarily for expressing human goodness and beauty.
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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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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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Does pain go away and leave no trace, then?’ ‘You sometimes even feel sentimental for it.
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