I Suppose Even A Woman's Hatred Is

In The Depths Of The Mirror The Evening Landscape Moved By, The Mirror And The Reflected Figures Like Motion Pictures Superimposed One On The Other. The Figures And The Background Were Unrelated, And Yet The Figures, Transparent And Intangible, And The Background, Dim In The Gathering Darkness, Melted Into A Sort Of Symbolic World Not Of This World. Particularly When A Light Out In The Mountains Shone In The Center Of The Girl's Face, Shimamura Felt His Chest Rise At The Inexpressible Beauty Of It.

Because You Cannot See Him, God Is Everywhere.

But A Haiku By Buson Came Into His Mind: 'i Try To Forget This Senile Love; A Chilly Autumn Shower.' The Gloom Only Grew Denser.

The Woman Was Silent, Her Eyes On The Floor. Shimamura Had Come To A Point Where He Knew He Was Only Parading His Masculine Shamelessness, And Yet It Seemed Likely Enough That The Woman Was Familiar With The Failing And Need Not Be Shocked By It. He Looked At Her. Perhaps It Was The Rich Lashes Of The Downcast Eyes That Made Her Face Seem Warm And Sensuous. She Shook Her Head Very Slightly, And Again A Faint Blush Spread Over Her Face.

The Train Came Out Of The Long Tunnel Into The Snow Country.