Why should I rest when wickedness exists in the world … God's love shines on anyone who understands the limits of endurance, and allows forgiveness …
Annihilation by Jeff Vandermeer
Now that I have worked twenty days at the restaurant I realize that every last one of the customers is a criminal. I have come to think that my husband is very much on the mild side compared to them. And I see now that not only the customers but everyone you meet walking in the streets is hiding some crime. A beautifully dressed lady came to the door selling sake at 300 yen the quart. That was cheap, considering what prices are nowadays, and the madam snapped it up. It turned out to be watered. I thought that in a world where even such an aristocratic-looking lady is forced to resort to such tricks, it is impossible that anyone alive has a clear conscience.
Villon's Wife by Dazai Osamu (tl. Donald Keene)
My God, but what do I care about the laws of nature and arithmetic if for some reason these laws and two times two is four are not to my liking?
Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky (tl. Richard Pevear & Larissa Volokhonsky)
Sometimes I think I'm free, coughed up like Jonah from the whale, but then I turn a corner and recognise myself again. Myself in your skin, myself lodged in your bones, myself floating in the cavities that decorate every surgeon's wall. That is how I know you. You are what I know.
Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson
You are like nobody since I love you.
Every Day You Play by Pablo Neruda (tl. W. S. Merwin)
And if from this turn inwards, from this submersion in your own world, there come verses, then it will not occur to you to ask anyone whether they are good verses. Nor will you attempt to interest magazines in these bits of work: for in them you will see your beloved natural possessions, a piece, and a voice, of your life. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. The verdict on it lies in this nature of its origin: there is no other. For this reason, my dear Sir, the only advice I have is this: to go into yourself and to examine the depths from which your life springs; at its source you will find the answer to the question of whether you have to write. Accept this answer as it is, without seeking to interpret it. Perhaps it will turn out that you are called to be an artist. Then assume this fate and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking after the rewards that may come from outside. For he who creates must be a world of his own and find everything within himself and in the natural world that he has elected to follow.
Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke (tl. Charlie Louth)
Doppo said he was in love with love. I am trying to hate hatred. I am trying to hate my hatred for poverty, for falsehood, for everything.
Daidōji Shinsuke: The Early Years by Akutagawa Ryuunosuke (tl. Jay Rubin)
You see: reason, gentlemen, is a fine thing, that is unquestionable, but reason is only reason and satisfies only man's reasoning capacity, while wanting is a manifestation of the whole of life—that is, the whole of human life, including reason and various little itches. And though our life in this manifestation often turns out to be a bit of trash, still it is life and not just the extraction of a square root.
Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky (tl. Richard Pevear & Larissa Volokhonsky)
After we had been walking for about two hours, the scenery around us began to look strangely desolate, and even, one might say, forbidding. It was no longer scenery. When you talk of scenery, you think of something that has been seen and described by many people over long periods of time. Human eyes have, as it were, softened it with their gaze, human hands have fed it and tamed it. Even the hundred-meter-high Kegon Falls has this vague smell of people about it, like a wild beast in a cage. In all the steep and rugged places that have ever been celebrated in paintings, songs, or poems, without a single exception, one can discover some human element, but this extreme northern coast of Honshu has steadfastly refused to transform itself into anything resembling scenery. It even spurns that speck of a human figure that can often be seen in landscape paintings. If one were to insist on sketching it in, one would have to use an old Ainu dressed in his white attush. The canvas would simply refuse to accept a dandy in a purple jumper. This landscape does not lend itself to picture or song. There are just the rocks, and water.
Return to Tsugaru: Travels of a Purple Tramp by Dazai Osamu (tl. James Westerhoven)
You don't think I'd joke about it, do you? I keep thinking about what you told me in the garden that day. About your father drowning in the pond. You said it was the only quiet place, away from the world. Well, I'm someone who's never had any peace of mind, any quiet. Ever since I was born I've been unhappy and unlucky. I'm tired of it. What's the point? I can't hope to repay you. You've been so kind to me, Oran, for months now. I owe you everything, the way you've taken care of me. It's been wonderful for me. It's the first time I've really been a part of the world—and the last. I feel as if I've seen enlightenment, all of a sudden, and I can't take this world any longer. You're the only one I'll miss.
Encounters on a Dark Night by Higuchi Ichiyou (tl. Robert Lyons Danly)
"My love is like a bridge of logs across the Hosotani River," she went on. "I'm afraid to cross to the other side; I'm afraid to stay where I am." But suddenly, as if the song had reminded her of something, she fell silent. "Excuse me. I'm sorry." She put her samisen aside and left the room.
"Where are you going?" they all began to shout. "You can't run out on us!"
"Teru, Otaka, cover for me, will you? I'll be right back." She hurried through the hallway and slipped into her shoes. Without looking back, she ran out into the street and down the alley on the other side.
Oriki ran from the house as fast as she could. If only it were possible, she would keep on going, to China, to India. How she hated her life! She never wanted to hear another human voice, or any sound at all. She needed a quiet place, where her mind could relax, where there were no worries. How long would she be stuck in this hopeless situation, where everything was absurd and worthless and cruel? Was this what life was supposed to be? She hated it! She hated it! She felt almost delirious and leaned against a tree at the side of the road. "I'm afraid to cross to the other side; I'm afraid to stay where I am." It was her song and her voice, but where was it coming from?
"I have no choice," she whispered. "I will have to cross the bridge by myself. My father fell treading it. They say my grandfather stumbled, too. I was born with the curse of many generations, and there are things I have to undergo before I die. No one's going to feel sorry for me, that much I know. If I complain about how sad I am, 'What's wrong?' people say, 'Don't you like your work?' Oh, it doesn't matter any more what happens—I haven't the slightest idea what will become of me. I might as well go on as Oriki of the Kikunoi. Sometimes I wonder if I've lost all sense of kindness and decency. No, I mustn't think such things. It won't do me any good. With my station in life and my calling and my fate, I'm not an ordinary person any more. It's a mistake to think I am. It only adds to my suffering. It's all so hopeless and discouraging. What am I doing standing here? Why did I come here? Stupid! Crazy! I don't even know myself," she sighed. "I'd better get back."
Oriki left the darkness of the alley and walked along a street lined with shops. They were all doing a lively business. If only some of the gaiety would rub off, she mused. As she trudged along, the faces of passersby seemed tiny to her. Even those of people who walked directly in front of her seemed somehow very distant. She felt as if she were hovering ten feet above the ground. She could hear the din of voices, but it sounded more like the echo of someone falling to the bottom of a well. She was lost in her own thoughts and paid no heed to the voices about her. Nothing distracted her. She passed a crowd gathered round a husband and wife who were arguing, but this, too, failed to interest her. It was as if she were walking in a great, open field laid bare by winter. There was nothing to capture her attention. She felt unsure of her step, as if she might faint. She wondered if she was losing her mind.
Troubled Waters by Higuchi Ichiyou (tl. Robert Lyons Danly)
i
'One cannot lose what one has not possessed.'
So much for that abrasive gem.
I can lose what I want. I want you.
The Songbook of Sebastian Arrurruz by Geoffrey Hill
Cross your hands on your knee, O consort I don't have or wish to have,
Cross your hands on your knee and look at me in silence
At this hour when I can't see that you're looking at me,
Look at me in silence and in secret, and ask yourself
—You who know me—who I am . . .
Excerpts from Two Odes, II by Álvaro de Campos (tl. Richard Zenith)
The metaphysical dread of Someone Else!
The horror of another consciousness,
Like a god spying on me!
How I wish
I were the only consciousness in the universe,
So that no one else's gaze would observe me!
The living mystery of seeing stares at me
From everyone's eyes, and the horror of them
Seeing me is overwhelming.
I can't imagine myself any different,
Nor imagine this consciousness—my twin—
Having any other form, or a differently
Different content. All I see are
Men, animals, wild beasts and birds
Horribly alive and staring at me.
I'm like a supreme God who one day
Realized that he's not the only one
And whose infinite gaze now confronts
The horror of other infinite gazes.
Faust by Fernando Pessoa (tl. Richard Zenith)
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Tomorrow will probably be another day like today. Happiness will never come my way. I know that. But it's probably best to go to sleep believing that it will surely come, tomorrow it will come.
Schoolgirl by Dazai Osamu (tl. Allison Markin Powell)
No matter how it comes out, it always finds its way to the person it was meant for. I just didn't know—or care—if it would last.
Tell me, just this once, if you still think of me. And let me recklessly, tenderly, tell you one more time: I love you.
Notes from a Crocodile by Qiu Miaojin (tl. Bonnie Huie)
What a shame it is to hear someone declare that things lose their beauty at night! All lustre, ornamentation and brilliance come into their own at night.
In daylight, one can keep things simple and dress sedately. But the best clothing for night is showy and dazzling formal wear. The same goes for people — a good-looking person will look still finer by lamplight, and it's charming to hear a careful voice speaking in darkness. Scents and music too are still lovelier at night.
Essays in Idleness by Yoshida Kenkou (tl. Meredith McKinney)
Given my lack of experience, if my books were taken away from me, I would be utterly devastated. That's how much I depend on what's written in books. I'll read one book and be completely wild about it—I'll trust it, I'll assimilate it, I'll sympathize with it, I'll try to make it a part of my life. Then, I'll read another book and, instantly, I'll switch over to that one. The sly ability to steal someone else's experience and recreate it as if it were my own is the only real talent I possess. Really, though, my guile is so bogus as to be offensive. If I were to experience failure upon failure day after day—nothing but total embarrassment—then perhaps I'd develop some semblance of dignity as a result. But no, I would somehow illogically twist even such failures, gloss over them smoothly, so that it would seem like they had a perfectly good theory behind them. And I would have no qualms about putting on a desperate show to do so.
(I'm sure I've even read these same words before in some book.)
Really, I don't know which is the true me. What ever will I do when there aren't any more books to read, or when I can't find another role model to imitate? Probably just wither away, helpless and sniveling profusely. Anyhow, these aimless thoughts I have on the train every day don't do me much good. The unpleasant warmth I still felt in my body was unbearable. I felt I had to do something, somehow, but would I be able to fully grasp what that was? My self-criticisms seem basically pointless to me. I would start to judge, and when I'd get to my negative or weak traits, I'd immediately begin to indulge or wallow in self-pity, and then decide it's no good, why not just leave well enough alone, so I've given up on criticism. It would be best if I just didn't think of anything at all.
Schoolgirl by Dazai Osamu (tl. Allison Markin Powell)
Three days later came the promised letter as well. It's here with me now, I always keep it with me, and shall die with it—do you want to see it? You must read it: she offers to be my fiancée, she offers herself, 'I love you madly,' she says, 'even if you do not love me—no matter, only be my husband. Don't be afraid, I shan't hinder you in any way, I'll be your furniture, the rug you walk on . . . I want to love you eternally, I want to save you from yourself . . .' Alyosha, I'm not worthy even to repeat those lines in my mean words and in my mean tone, in my eternally mean tone that I can never be cured of!
The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky (tl. Richard Pevear & Larissa Volokhonsky)
I was backing myself into a corner. Day after day was black as night. I am not an evil man! To deceive others is to live in hell.
Eight Views of Tokyo by Dazai Osamu (tl. Ralph McCarthy)
Here is the angel, who does not exist, and the devil, who does not exist; and man, who does exist, is in between them and, I cannot help it, their unreality makes him more real for me.
The Letter from the Young Worker by Rainer Maria Rilke (tl. Charlie Louth)
30. Rain
In the big bed he talked with her about many things. Beyond the bedroom window it was raining. The blossoms of the crinum tree had begun to rot in the rain, it seemed. Her face, as always, looked as if it were in moonlight, yet talking with her was not entirely free of boredom. He lay on his stomach, had himself a quiet smoke, and realized he had now been with her for seven years.
Do I still love this woman? he asked himself. He was in the habit of observing himself so closely that the answer came as a surprise to him: I do.
The Life of a Stupid Man by Akutagawa Ryuunosuke (tl. Jay Rubin)
A book is open in front of me and this is what it has to say about the symptoms of morphine withdrawal:
'… morbid anxiety, a nervous depressed condition, irritability, weakening of the memory, occasional hallucinations and a mild impairment of consciousness …'
I have not experienced any hallucinations, but I can only say that the rest of this description is dull, pedestrian and totally inadequate. 'Depressed condition' indeed! Having suffered from this appalling malady, I hereby enjoin all doctors to be more compassionate toward their patients. What overtakes the addict deprived of morphine for a mere hour or two is not a 'depressed condition': it is slow death. Air is insubstantial, gulping it down is useless … there is not a cell in one's body that does not crave … but crave what? This is something which defies analysis and explanation. In short, the individual ceases to exist: he is eliminated. The body which moves, agonises and suffers is a corpse. It wants nothing, can think of nothing but morphine. To die of thirst is a heavenly, blissful death compared with the craving for morphine. The feeling must be something like that of a man buried alive, clawing at the skin on his chest in the effort to catch the last tiny bubbles of air in his coffin, or of a heretic at the stake, groaning and writhing as the first tongues of flame lick at his feet.
Death. A dry, slow death. That is what lurks behind that clinical, academic phrase 'a depressed condition'.
Morphine by Mikhail Bulgakov (tl. Michael Glenny)
I want you to live for the future. There may be nothing left for you... But despite that, you must look forward and walk a path of hope, trusting that it will sustain you when darkness comes.
Farewell... This is the only world that your ancestors were able to leave you.
Please...forgive us.
The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker
And let me at once make this request: read as little as possible in the way of aesthetics and criticism — it will either be partisan views, fossilized and made meaningless in its lifeless rigidity, or it will be neat wordplay, where one opinion will triumph one day and the opposite the next. Works of art are infinitely solitary and nothing is less likely to reach them than criticism. Only love can grasp them and hold them and do them justice.
Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke (tl. Charlie Louth)
Come out of the depths
Of the pallid horizon,
Come pull me out
Of the soil of anxiety and barrenness
Where I thrive.
Pluck me, a forgotten daisy, from my soil.
Read in my petals I can't imagine what fortune
And strip them off to your satisfaction,
Your cool and quiet satisfaction.
Excerpts from Two Odes, I by Álvaro de Campos (tl. Richard Zenith)
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The rainy season in Totsuka. Twilight in Hongo. The festival in Kanda. The first snow in Kashiwagi. Fireworks in Hatchobori. The full moon over Shiba. Evening cicadas in Amanuma. Lightning on the Ginza. Cosmos in the garden of the Itabashi mental hospital. Morning mist in Ogikubo. Sunset over Musashino … The memories were dark flowers that danced and scattered in the wind and resisted order. And wasn't limiting it to exactly eight views a trite and vulgar thing to do?
Eight Views of Tokyo by Dazai Osamu (tl. Ralph McCarthy)
And whenever I happened to sink into the deepest, the very deepest shame of depravity (and that's all I ever happened to do), I always read that poem about Ceres and man. Did it set me right? Never! Because I'm a Karamazov. Because when I fall into the abyss, I go straight into it, head down and heels up, and I'm even pleased that I'm falling in just such a humiliating position, and for me I find it beautiful. And so in that very shame I suddenly begin a hymn. Let me be cursed, let me be base and vile, but let me also kiss the hem of that garment in which my God is clothed; let me be following the devil at the same time, but still I am also your son, Lord, and I love you, and I feel a joy without which the world cannot stand and be.
The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky (tl. Richard Pevear & Larissa Volokhonsky)
Until then, Wujing had thought he was seeking the meaning of the world, not his own happiness. This was, however, an utter misconception. The truth was that he was, in an unusual manner, most tenaciously seeking his own happiness.
The Rebirth of Wujing by Nakajima Atsushi (tl. Nobuko Ochner)
Another part of me wondered if it was okay either way, not to know, not be sure. That I could let life happen to me in a sense, and that perhaps this was the deeper truth all along, that we controlled nothing and no one, though really I didn't know that either.
Cold Enough for Snow by Jessica Au
Before going to sleep I would quietly open the curtains in my room and look through the glass at Fuji. On moonlit nights it was a pale, bluish white, standing there like the spirit of the rivers and lakes. I'd sigh. Ah, I can see Fuji. How big the stars are. Fine weather tomorrow, no doubt. These were the only glimmerings I had of the joy of being alive, and after quietly closing the curtains again I'd go to bed and reflect that, yes, the weather would be fine tomorrow — but so what? What did that have to do with me? It would strike me as so absurd that I'd end up chuckling wryly to myself as I lay on my futon.
One Hundred Views of Mt. Fuji by Dazai Osamu (tl. Ralph McCarthy)
On the very night before his death (he died the following afternoon shortly after five o'clock) he opened for me perspectives of such purity into a region of the blindest suffering that my life seemed to begin again in a thousand places and my voice, when I wanted to answer, deserted me. I did not know that there was such a thing as tears of joy. I wept my first, like a novice, into the hands of Pierre, who would be dead tomorrow, and felt the tide of life rise once more in him and overflow as these warm drops were added to it.
The Letter from the Young Worker by Rainer Maria Rilke (tl. Charlie Louth)
I began to feel that anything and everything was a lie. Politics, business, art, science: all seemed just a mottled layer of enamel covering over this life in all its horror.
Spinning Gears by Akutagawa Ryuunosuke (tl. Jay Rubin)
Which brings us back to the beginning. A bit clumsily, if I do say so myself. I must say, I dislike these narrative contrivances. And yet I try to use them nonetheless. Welcome to Sadness. Population one. A poetic line with a familiar ring, straight from the gates of the inferno, but I had thought it might work well here, as a glowing opener. I have no other defense. Even if this one line spelled the downfall of my novel, I'm afraid I wouldn't have the guts to cut it. I might even put it this way, for good measure: deleting that first line would mean erasing my entire life thus far.
The Flowers of Buffoonery by Dazai Osamu (tl. Sam Bett)
I'm glad you're the person you are now. I know it's really arbitrary… but I wanted to make sure I told you.
Vanitas no Carte by Mochizuki Jun
The slight elevation behind the temple had been made into a graveyard, with a forest of grave markers standing alongside a hedge of yellow roses. Among the markers stood what looked like a black, iron cart wheel, about the size of a full moon. Take said that anyone turning the wheel would go to heaven if the wheel stopped dead, but if it stopped for just a moment and then rattled back in the opposite direction, he would go to hell. When she spun it, the wheel would turn smoothly for a good while and invariable stop dead, but when I tried it, it would sometimes turn back. I remember I went to the temple by myself, one autumn day, but no matter how many times I spun the wheel, it always rattled back on its tracks, as if it had been told to do so. I was getting tired and ready to throw a fit, but I stubbornly kept on turning, dozens of times. Then it grew dark, so I gave up in despair and left the graveyard . . . .
Return to Tsugaru: Travels of a Purple Tramp by Dazai Osamu (tl. James Westerhoven)
I no longer think of myself as an unhappy person—quite the opposite. Admitting that I have problems is a mode of optimism, since every problem has a solution. Unhappiness is a lot like bad weather: It's out of your control. So if I encounter a problem that even death can't solve, I shouldn't care whether I'm happy or unhappy, thereby negating both the problem and the problem of a problem. And that is where happiness begins.
Notes from a Crocodile by Qiu Miaojin (tl. Bonnie Huie)
I love all of you and all things like a beast.
I love you carnivorously,
Pervertedly, wrapping my eyes
All around you, O great and banal, useful and useless things,
Triumphal Ode by Álvaro de Campos (tl Richard Zenith)
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