More Quotes by Yasunari Kawabata
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.
Lunatics have no age. If we were crazy, you and I, we might be a great deal younger.
The snow on the distant mountains was soft and creamy, as if veiled in a faint smoke.
I suppose even a woman's hatred is a kind of love.
Put your soul in the palm of my hand for me to look at, like a crystal jewel. I'll sketch it in words.
A secret, if it's kept, can be sweet and comforting, but once it leaks out it can turn on you with a vengeance.
The labor into which a heart has poured its whole love--where will it have its say, to excite and inspire, and when?
And I can't complain. After all, only women are able really to love.
Our language is primarily for expressing human goodness and beauty.
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.
