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

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

But a haiku by Buson came into his mind: 'I try to forget this senile love; a chilly autumn shower.' The gloom only grew denser.

THE TRAIN came out of the long tunnel into the snow country.

Put your soul in the palm of my hand for me to look at, like a crystal jewel. I'll sketch it in words.

From the way of Go the beauty of Japan and the Orient had fled. Everything had become science and regulation.

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