Far away, where the bell tinkled on, he suddenly saw Komako’s feet, tripping in time with the bell. He put his ear to the kettle and listened. Just beyond the far breeze he heard faintly the tinkling of a bell. He could make out two pine breezes, as a matter of fact, a near one and a far one. The innkeeper had lent him an old Kyoto teakettle, skillfully inlaid in silver with flowers and birds, and from it came the sound of wind in the pines. He leaned against the brazier, provided against the coming of the snowy season, and thought how unlikely it was that he would come again once he had left. And he knew that he could not go on pampering himself forever. He “heard in his chest, like snow piling up, the sound of Komako, an echo beating against empty walls. All of Komako came to him, but it seemed that nothing went out from him to her. He could not understand how she had so lost herself. He stood gazing at his own coldness, so to speak. And the more continuous the assault became, the more he began to wonder what was lacking in him, what kept him from living as completely. He had simply fallen into the habit of waiting for those frequent visits. He stayed not because he could not leave Komako nor because he did not want to. He had stayed so long that one might wonder whether he had forgotten his wife and children. As Shimamura thought absently how human intimacies have not even so long a life, the image of Komako as the mother of another man’s children suddenly floated into his mind. Though cloth to be worn is among the most short-lived of craftworks, a good piece of Chijimi, if it has been taken care of, can be worn quite unfaded a half-century and more after weaving. “But this love would leave behind it nothing so definite as a piece of Chijimi. ― Yasunari Kawabata, quote from Snow Country
He knew well enough that for her it was in fact no waste of effort, but somehow the final determination that it had the effect of distilling and purifying the woman's existence.” But, drawn to her at that moment, he felt a quiet like the voice of the rain flow over him. For some reason Shimamura wanted to stress the point. She gazed solemnly at Shimamura, however.Ī complete waste of effort. "A complete waste of effort," she answered brightly, as though the admission meant little to her.
I just write down the author and the characters and how they are related to each other. "You write down your criticisms, do you?" “But even more than her diary, Shimamura was surprised at her statement that she had carefully cataloged every novel and short story she had read since she was fifteen or sixteen.
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