I suppose even a woman's hatred is a kind of love.

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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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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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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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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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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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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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A child walked by, rolling a metal hoop that made a sound of autumn.

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And I can't complain. After all, only women are able really to love.

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