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From the way of Go the beauty of Japan and the Orient had fled. Everything had become science and regulation.

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
Science
Become
Everything
Way
Orient
Fled
Regulation
Japan
Beauty

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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 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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THE TRAIN came out of the long tunnel into the snow country.
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Because you cannot see him, God is everywhere.
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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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I wonder what the retirement age is in the novel business. The day you die.
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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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They were words that came out of nothing, but they seemed to him somehow significant. He muttered them over again.
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Our language is primarily for expressing human goodness and beauty.
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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 suppose even a woman's hatred is a kind of 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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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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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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The snow on the distant mountains was soft and creamy, as if veiled in a faint smoke.
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A child walked by, rolling a metal hoop that made a sound of autumn.
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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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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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