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

Again and again, the cicada's untiring cry pierced the sultry summer air like a needle at work on thick cotton cloth.

Mine was the unbearable jealousy a cultured pearl must feel toward a genuine one. Or can there be such a thing in this world as a man who is jealous of the woman who loves him, precisely because of her love?

Living is merely the chaos of existence.

Nobody even imagines how well one can lie about the state of one’s own heart.

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.