The road was frozen. The village lay quiet under the cold sky. Komako hitched up the skirt of her kimono and tucked it into her obi. The moon shone like a blade frozen in blue ice.

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

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

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.

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