He was in a room of the Gesshuuji, which he had thought it would be impossible to visit. The approach of death had made the visit easy, had unloosed the weight that held him in the depths of being. It was even a comfort to think, from the light repose the struggle up the hill had brought him, that Kiyoaki, struggling against illness up that same road, had been given wings to soar with by the denial that awaited him.

His emotion evident in the glitter of his eyes.

Glory, as anyone knows, is bitter stuff.

Actually the action called a kiss represented nothing more for me than some place where my spirit could seek shelter.

A father is a reality-concealing machine, a machine for dishing up lies to kids, and that isn't even the worst of it: secretly he believes that he represents reality.

Perfect purity is possible if you turn your life into a line of poetry written with a splash of blood.

There isn't any fear in existence itself, or any uncertainty, but living creates it.