I'll write to you. A super-long letter, like in an old-fashioned novel

It is my huge pleasure that my novels are translated into languages that are read among small numbers of people.

Forgive me for stating the obvious, but the world is made up of all kinds of people.

It feels good to think about you when I'm warm in bed. I feel as if you're curled up there beside me, fast asleep. And I think how great it would be if it were true.

I never trust people with no appetite. It's like they're always holding something back on you.

It's like a kid standing at the window watching the rain.

Oshima's silent for a time as he gazes at the forest, eyes narrowed. Birds are flitting from one branch to the next. His hands are clasped behind his head. "I know how you feel," he finally says. "But this is something you have to work out on your own. Nobody can help you. That's what love's all about, Kafka. You're the one having those wonderful feelings, but you have to go it alone as you wander through the dark. Your mind and body have to bear it all. All by yourself.