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The snow on the distant mountains was soft and creamy, as if veiled in a faint smoke.

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
Mountain
Creamy
Veiled
Faint
Distant
Mountains
Soft
Snow
Smoke

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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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And I can't complain. After all, only women are able really to love.
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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 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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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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I wonder what the retirement age is in the novel business. The day you die.
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I suppose even a woman's hatred is a kind of love.
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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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Our language is primarily for expressing human goodness and beauty.
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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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Because you cannot see him, God is everywhere.
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A child walked by, rolling a metal hoop that made a sound of autumn.
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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 true joy of a moonlit night is something we no longer understand. Only the men of old, when there were no lights, could understand the true joy of a moonlit night.
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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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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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Does pain go away and leave no trace, then?’ ‘You sometimes even feel sentimental for it.
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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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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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