The woman was silent, her eyes on the floor. Shimamura had come to a point where he knew he was only parading his masculine shamelessness, and yet it seemed likely enough that the woman was familiar with the failing and need not be shocked by it. He looked at her. Perhaps it was the rich lashes of the downcast eyes that made her face seem warm and sensuous. She shook her head very slightly, and again a faint blush spread over her face.

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Our language is primarily for expressing human goodness and beauty.

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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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I wonder what the retirement age is in the novel business. The day you die.

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

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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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