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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
Distant
Mountains
Soft
Snow
Smoke
Mountain
Creamy
Veiled
Faint
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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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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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And I can't complain. After all, only women are able really to love.
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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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I wonder what the retirement age is in the novel business. The day you die.
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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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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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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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Does pain go away and leave no trace, then?’ ‘You sometimes even feel sentimental for it.
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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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THE TRAIN came out of the long tunnel into the snow country.
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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 child walked by, rolling a metal hoop that made a sound of autumn.
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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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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 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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Our language is primarily for expressing human goodness and beauty.
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