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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
Soft
Snow
Smoke
Mountain
Creamy
Veiled
Faint
Distant
Mountains

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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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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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They were words that came out of nothing, but they seemed to him somehow significant. He muttered them over again.
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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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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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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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And I can't complain. After all, only women are able really to love.
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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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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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I wonder what the retirement age is in the novel business. The day you die.
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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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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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Because you cannot see him, God is everywhere.
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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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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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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 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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I suppose even a woman's hatred is a kind of love.
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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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