It would seem that the more irresponsible and crafty one is, the more likely one is to have a talent for storytelling.

Last year nothing happened The year before nothing happened And the year before that nothing happened.

What frightened me was the logic of the world; in it lay the foretaste of something incalculably powerful. Its mechanism was incomprehensible, and I could not possibly remain closeted in that windowless, bone-chilling room. Though outside lay the sea of irrationality, it was far more agreeable to swim in its waters until presently I drowned.

But happiness is being able to hope, however faintly, for happiness. So, at least, we must believe if we are to live in the world of today.

One day, I went to a soba restaurant outside town, and while I was waiting for the zarusoba I opened an old graph magazine. There was a picture of an exhausted, lonely kneeling woman who wore a checked patterned yukata after the tradegy of a large earthquake. With the intensity of my chest ready to burn up, I fell in love with that poor woman. I also felt a horrifying desire for her. Maybe tragedy and desire are back to back to one another.

To be a friend of the weak-that is the artist's point of departure as well as his ultimate goal.

I like roses best. But they bloom in all four seasons. I wonder if people who like roses best have to die four times over again.