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***
???????? ???????? (1899-1972): ????? ?????? ?????? ?????? ??????? ?????? ???????? ??? ???????? ??????? ???? ??????? ??????? ???? ?????? ??????? ?????. ???? ??? 1924 ?? ????? ????? (????? ?????) ???? ????? ?????? ????? ?? ??????? ?????? ?Shinkankakuha?? ?? ?????????? ?? ??????? ???????? ????? ??? ??????? ?????? ??????? ?????? ??????? ??? ????? ?????? ???????. ??? ??? ???? ?????? ??? 1968 ????? ??? ?????? ???? ???? ??? ???? ??? ??????? ??????? ????? ?????? ????????. ??? ?????? ???????? ?? ???? ?????? ???????? ???? ??? ???? ??? ??? ????? ??? ???. ?? ???? ????? ??? ?????? ????? ?? ???? ?? ?????? ?? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ????? ?????? ????? ??????.
***
???????? ???????? (1899-1972): ????? ?????? ?????? ?????? ??????? ?????? ???????? ??? ???????? ??????? ???? ??????? ??????? ???? ?????? ??????? ?????. ???? ??? 1924 ?? ????? ????? (????? ?????) ???? ????? ?????? ????? ?? ??????? ?????? ?Shinkankakuha?? ?? ?????????? ?? ??????? ???????? ????? ??? ??????? ?????? ??????? ?????? ??????? ??? ????? ?????? ???????. ??? ??? ???? ?????? ??? 1968 ????? ??? ?????? ???? ???? ??? ???? ??? ??????? ??????? ????? ?????? ????????. ??? ?????? ???????? ?? ???? ?????? ???????? ???? ??? ???? ??? ??? ????? ??? ???. ?? ???? ????? ??? ?????? ????? ?? ???? ?? ?????? ?? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ????? ?????? ????? ??????.
176 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1926
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4,337 people want to read
About the author
Yasunari Kawabata
392?books3,649?followersYasunari Kawabata () was a Japanese short story writer and novelist whose spare, lyrical, subtly-shaded prose works won him the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1968, the first Japanese author to receive the award. His works have enjoyed broad international appeal and are still widely read today.
Nobel Lecture: 1968
Nobel Lecture: 1968
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January 15, 2018
“When so many are lonely as seem to be lonely, it would be inexcusably selfish to be lonely alone.”
― Tennessee Williams, Camino Real
The Dancing Girl of Izu
looking from afar
wishing to break the silence
that haunts them tonight
Full review
Diary of My Sixteenth Year
lonely child
forced to grow
as leaves fall
Oil
crowded oil
fading away
amid the ashes
The Master of Funerals
existence whispers
ancient songs of winter times
solitude lingers
Full review
Gathering Ashes
old dust
makes the nose bleed
when cicadas cry
Hurrah
two loners meet
and start their journey
throughout Japan
The Princess of the Dragon Palace
sinners pay
they soon became
two lines
destined never to meet
The Honey Road
memories of loss
break into the mind
as a whitened pond
sings into the night
They say paradise is far away.
Chastity Under the Roof
I wonder
what to say
about this one
long sigh
moving on
The Moon
thoughts so heavy
that dig his clogs
into the snow
...one who intends to join her life with mine.
Enemy
a woman sees
a line of enemies
inside her screen
A Woman
where the gourds lie, a sullied sword pierced a tombstone to purify itself
Frightening Love
do the heavens
punish
too much love?
*
heavens punish
too much
doubt
Horse Beauty
ravishing horse
galloped off
leaving the cosmos flowers
behind
The Sea
stop hesitating
bring your silence
and walk with me
'Please take me where I can't look at the sea.'
Hands
silent hands
evoke her death
pomegranate flower
He believed that in this way his unexpressed feelings could somehow be communicated to others.
The Third-Class Waiting Room
Tokyo Station
has the feeling
she's not coming
The Watch
a lawyer
meant to talk
can't find the words
in his avalanche of thoughts
We mustn't condemn the vanity of these two. Vanity happened to give this man, who had groveled in fear of women, a little courage for love. ...perhaps, this thing called love is so absurd that it will manifest itself regardless of the means.
History
open your eyes now
under the fallen oak leaves
lie real intentions
Birthplace
financial
transactions
exhaust me
yet they brought the boy back to his land
Burning the Pine Boughs
the sounds of fear
cover the night
of the first sparrow
A Prayer in the Mother Tongue
the mind
remembers
as it says goodbye
'Perhaps Kayoko is something like a mother tongue to me.'
The Setting Sun
don't look at my past
she said to the poet
near the blossoms
*
the samurai's sword
grabbed a life
and broke it in two
your silence is sharper
Jan 01, 16
* First review of 2016. One can only hope...
** Also on .
January 23, 2023
?????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???? ?????? ?? ???????? ??????? ??? "?????? ?????" ? "???????? ????????" ??????? ?? ???????? ??????.
??? ??? ?????? ?????? ?????? ?? ?????? ???? ?????? ?????? ?????? ?? ???? ???? ?????? ? ?????? ??? ????? ???? ??? ??????? ?? ??????? ??????? ?? ???? ??? ?? : "????? ????" ? "?????" ? "?????" ? "??? ?? ??????" ? "???? ???????".
???? ??????? ????? ?????? ?????? ? ?????????? ???????? ????????? ??????? ? ????? ??? ??? ????? ???????? ? ???? ?????? ??????? ??? ??????? ??????? ??????????? ????? ?? ??? ??? ???? ?????? ????.
???? ???? ????? ?? ???? ?????? ? ??? ???????? ??????? .
??????? ????? ??? ????? ?????? ? ?? ???? ???? ??? ??????? ???? ??? ???????? ??? ??? ???? ???? ???? ?? ??? ????? ? ??? ???? ?????? ????? ????? ????? ???? ????? ????? ?????? ????? ?? ???? ?? ??? ????? ??????? ???? ???? ?? ?????? .
??? ??? ?????? ?????? ?????? ?? ?????? ???? ?????? ?????? ?????? ?? ???? ???? ?????? ? ?????? ??? ????? ???? ??? ??????? ?? ??????? ??????? ?? ???? ??? ?? : "????? ????" ? "?????" ? "?????" ? "??? ?? ??????" ? "???? ???????".
???? ??????? ????? ?????? ?????? ? ?????????? ???????? ????????? ??????? ? ????? ??? ??? ????? ???????? ? ???? ?????? ??????? ??? ??????? ??????? ??????????? ????? ?? ??? ??? ???? ?????? ????.
???? ???? ????? ?? ???? ?????? ? ??? ???????? ??????? .
??????? ????? ??? ????? ?????? ? ?? ???? ???? ??? ??????? ???? ??? ???????? ??? ??? ???? ???? ???? ?? ??? ????? ? ??? ???? ?????? ????? ????? ????? ???? ????? ????? ?????? ????? ?? ???? ?? ??? ????? ??????? ???? ???? ?? ?????? .
March 20, 2018
This is a collection of short stories by Kawabata. The title of the book comes from the first story called "The Dancing Girl of Izu"
In general all of the stories had a strange feeling, very distant from me and yet very human. I enjoyed all of them quite a lot.
I don't think this is for everyone though.
Be well folks <3
In general all of the stories had a strange feeling, very distant from me and yet very human. I enjoyed all of them quite a lot.
I don't think this is for everyone though.
Be well folks <3
February 14, 2015
"As death approaches, memory erodes. Recent memories are the first to succumb. Death works its way backward until it reaches memory's earliest beginnings. Then memory flares up for an instant, just like a flame about to go out. That is the "prayer in the mother tongue."
A string of solemn words sprint from my mind onto my lips at slight picture of a funeral that passes on the street. With my hands pressed palm to palm; expressing gratitude to the death a prayer in the mother tongue, “Bless the departed soul and forgive all the mortal sins”; escapes in the melancholic air. Forgiveness, they say, is the only medicine that cures an infected heart. A prayer; a hope for betterment flickers as the mind enters into an empty abyss. When death approaches, it fetches the long lost past; nostalgia slowly creeps with the facade of first love; the fragments of a faded childhood and the tattered pages of life’s desolation are pasted in a sentimental embrace even as the empathetic mother tongue binds the corpse in ropes of convention. As a child, I was terrified of funerals. But, it all changed on the day my grandfather died. The elders thought as I was too young to see the dead and so I was sent to the neighboring apartment. I never got to witness my grandfather’s silent face; his last physical memories of this world. Not a single tear was dropped when I came back to an empty room and even today funerals never make me grieve. At funerals, I sit by the dead and stare blankly at the soundless face, searching for a fragmentary goodbye of my grandfather as my anguish never got the merited privilege of closure. Does death complete the emptiness that life always dwells in? Can death really erase all the mistakes and sins of mortality? When does a man rob the virginity of his life and then later, why does he regret it as a reckless act? Did my grandfather recollect his first spoken words in his mother tongue? The virginal call to his mother. Will I remember my first words on my deathbed? The choreographed beats of a drum lingered from a nearby tea house.
As I sat on the old steps, waiting for the youth, whom they called ‘Master of funerals’, I heard the heart wrenching cries of a child as his poured the oil out of the lamp, lit in front of the dead. The boy despised the mere smell of the oil; rapeseed to be precise. The oil was cruel enough to play tricks on the child’s mind. The lingering sweet odor brought back the dead. Unaware of his quandary, it would not be long till he smelled the rapeseed oil once again. Will he then offer a hundred lights at the altar to honor his parents? Ask the boy for whom death permeates through the viscous oil. A middle-school teen who had come to honor the dead sat besides me. He did not felt the need to put on a solemn mask like several others at the funeral. Just like me, he could not grieve the death. The rituals commenced with the entry of the ‘master of funerals’. The youth was neither a temple priest nor a shaman. The fellow was in his 20s who unfortunately had seen more funerals than celebratory sacraments of life; his kimono smelled like a grave. Amid the chants, to the horror of the mourners, the teen slammed a book in my palm. “Please, read it carefully”, he pleaded. Words were jammed up in my throat. How could he do such a disgraceful thing in the middle of the funeral? Doesn't he respect the dead? Tears flooded his aching eyes and I knew it right then, I had to read his penned diary of the sixteenth year. I could not bring myself to give him an unenthusiastic answer; I had to revere his words the way his belief resided in my approval. The boy’s grandfather was on the brink of death. Maybe, it was fate giving me a second chance to pronounce my own unsaid goodbyes. Maybe, his word would lessen the weight of my onerous memories. Nevertheless, will the teen himself be able to unload his baggage? Will the sorrow of his loneliness vanish like the tears from his grandfather’s hopeful eyes? Similar to his grandfather, would his heart stand strong for seventy-five years while the wounds of failure bled? Ask him on his 27th birthday.
The pristine images of the flowing white fabrics floated the virginal essence of life that conquered the departed soul. The soft waves of the sea murmured the melancholy of breathing memories. The urn to be used for gathering the ashes rested peacefully on the wooden mantle that once was a proud owner of an authentic Japanese watch symbolizing the courage of love. Love is certainly a funny thing. It dawns from sheer vanity of beauty and crumbles in its opulent absurdities.Frightening love. Love that dwells on fringes of insanity; love that consumes the very essence of its purity to the advent of insanity. Is love a bastard child of lunacy or an orphan seeking a home in fostered hearts? Ask the man who patiently waited for the bitter blade to touch his warm neck.
The boy, who had come with a smartly wrapped parcel containing some of his mother’s old kimonos along with his belongings, kept smiling as the birthplace bid a sorrowful adieu to one its children. Amid the ritualistic chants, the funeral proceeded onto the pompous street that prided in its mountains of silver and copper coins. The coins fell swiftly as pearls from a necklace. By honoring the dead,the honey road became an illusionary plaque of a melancholic heaven. Is then, paradise a distant path or is it found in the boots of the beggar who tonight will feast on a scrumptious sea bream and sake; the red comb a gift on her wedding night. The outlandish screeching of the cicadas interrupted the funeral procession as the villagers glanced at each other. The cries of the cicadas from the hill in the park metamorphosed into the merciful whimpers of a woman dwelling in the realms of her chastity under the roof. Once again the villagers glanced at each other. The rumor of a woman who lost her virginity three times preceded the procession.The woman who stood behind me in a white kimono grinned as only she knew the absolute truth. She had lost her virginity at the very sight of a wrinkle resting near her eye and the sting of her sagging breast bled for the first time. Not a single memory, just a flimsy shadow. Is old age the inevitable enemy of beauty that life prides upon? Do the baggage of our memories become detrimental as we head towards the dusk of our lives? Ask the woman who lost her virginity for the fourth time. Vile gossip is an illusion stemming from a nascent self-hatred .Like a chimerical ballet liberated from human errors, fantasy takes refuge into the arms of realism. Isn't it true that at times we choose to dwell in our rose-tinted prejudices? Ask the man standing in the shadow of a pilgrim in the third-class waiting room at the station. The voice of the drums seems to get closer.
The procession took a final turn on a narrow road that led to the ‘Mountain Peach Bath’; a man- made paradise. Suddenly, a wild uproar halted the funeral procession. “You worms. It's a small road just wide enough for automobiles to pass. If you were so shocked when you first realized what kind of intentions that road had, you had better open your eyes while you can and think about the intentions that lie behind that highway.", howled an infuriated young man. The public bath gave way to a newly built private bath and the Mountain Peach Bath’ could only be found in the history archives of fading memories. Somewhere, the crickets zealously chirped in a jar. The persistent odor that oozed from burning the pine boughs brought happiness to a gloomy heart. Did the ashes of the burned pine boughs cleanse the heart from the burdensome memories? Did the heart become a pictograph of purity, once again? Ask the heart who was anxious to eradicate the embedded orphan complex.
Underneath the persimmon trees, unaware of the large procession; the children played with their newly discovered half-sword. The blunt piece reminiscing in the memory of its sharpness lay on beneath the ancestral shrine. The samurai sword was chastised for tasting the blood of a grief-stricken woman. Did the sword have the right to take a genuine life? Who made the sword a messiah of justice? Ask the broken piece that drew blood.
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” yelled the sisters at the gate of the inn. Did they express the similar sentiments of the soul that had just departed from a sullied body? Or were these words of encouragement bestowed on the woman who in the memory of her father embarked on a journey of residing in the inns throughout Japan. Did the inn represented her unfulfilled dream or bear the burden of her unkind memories? Akin to the way I struggle to find my grandfather’s face in the dead. The deafening sounds of the drum were excruciating to my emptiness. As I peeked into the tea house, I lost track of the funeral. An adolescent dancing girl in her teens was happily playing the drums, entertaining the tea house patrons. A virginal beauty daunting to the eyes of her admirers; the dancing girl of Izu was a nomad of beauty and cleanness; a girl yet to be christened as a woman; someday.
Nearly after a somber hour, the funeral procession came to its end. Reminiscent to a soul noiselessly leaving a body in all its glory, the setting sun slipped into its watery grave leaving its memories in a violet sky. The soft waves of the sea melodiously hum a lullaby to the princess of the dragon palace who slept in the cerulean depths whilst a fairy tale was penned on a lover’s grave. On my way back from the cremation, weary laborers walked from the mountains into the village; a girl sat terrified of the sea, wondering if there would be someone caring enough to take her away from this place. The nightfall glistened in the moonlight. The moon shimmered in its loneliness; its virginal baggage getting heavier with every star that cropped up in the nightly ecstasy. As the moon pondered on its forlorn fate, the horse beauty flew like an arrow towards the moon. The drums of the dancing girl welcomed a new life in to this world as it gave its first virginal cry. That day, I had witnessed both, the echo of life and the stillness of death; everything in between lay scripted in the unread pages of the diary that fervently fluttered in my lap.
"Put your soul in the palm of my hand for me to look at, like a crystal jewel. I'll sketch it in words..."
When I embarked on the Kawabata journey, I was determined to read each of his literary works, come what may. I desired to view Kawabata’s primary strokes of his literary painting. A writer’s first work resembles the monochromatic background splashed on a bare canvass; its image yet unknown. To discover the root after cherishing the grandeur, the essence of the root is placed on a critical dais. Alas, I had seen the painting first and not the bare canvas. I was handed a completed art and as I sat there trying to decipher and classify every color that amalgamated in the quest for a divine nothingness , I listened to the silence that lingered between the scripted words, comprehended the lingering sentiments and the opulent beauty that flowed with every stroke on the bare canvas. At times when the silence consumed me, I could observe the anguish of a soul that shimmered like a crystal jewel amongst the sketched words. To comprehend the meaning of nothingness, a cry of a lonely heart, to evaluate a character without any prejudices, the quest for a virginal soul, to hear the earthly grave that now bestows the divinity of a grain that feeds sons and grandsons; a need for the “ears of a Buddha”. A privilege that Kawabata sometimes bestows.
A string of solemn words sprint from my mind onto my lips at slight picture of a funeral that passes on the street. With my hands pressed palm to palm; expressing gratitude to the death a prayer in the mother tongue, “Bless the departed soul and forgive all the mortal sins”; escapes in the melancholic air. Forgiveness, they say, is the only medicine that cures an infected heart. A prayer; a hope for betterment flickers as the mind enters into an empty abyss. When death approaches, it fetches the long lost past; nostalgia slowly creeps with the facade of first love; the fragments of a faded childhood and the tattered pages of life’s desolation are pasted in a sentimental embrace even as the empathetic mother tongue binds the corpse in ropes of convention. As a child, I was terrified of funerals. But, it all changed on the day my grandfather died. The elders thought as I was too young to see the dead and so I was sent to the neighboring apartment. I never got to witness my grandfather’s silent face; his last physical memories of this world. Not a single tear was dropped when I came back to an empty room and even today funerals never make me grieve. At funerals, I sit by the dead and stare blankly at the soundless face, searching for a fragmentary goodbye of my grandfather as my anguish never got the merited privilege of closure. Does death complete the emptiness that life always dwells in? Can death really erase all the mistakes and sins of mortality? When does a man rob the virginity of his life and then later, why does he regret it as a reckless act? Did my grandfather recollect his first spoken words in his mother tongue? The virginal call to his mother. Will I remember my first words on my deathbed? The choreographed beats of a drum lingered from a nearby tea house.
As I sat on the old steps, waiting for the youth, whom they called ‘Master of funerals’, I heard the heart wrenching cries of a child as his poured the oil out of the lamp, lit in front of the dead. The boy despised the mere smell of the oil; rapeseed to be precise. The oil was cruel enough to play tricks on the child’s mind. The lingering sweet odor brought back the dead. Unaware of his quandary, it would not be long till he smelled the rapeseed oil once again. Will he then offer a hundred lights at the altar to honor his parents? Ask the boy for whom death permeates through the viscous oil. A middle-school teen who had come to honor the dead sat besides me. He did not felt the need to put on a solemn mask like several others at the funeral. Just like me, he could not grieve the death. The rituals commenced with the entry of the ‘master of funerals’. The youth was neither a temple priest nor a shaman. The fellow was in his 20s who unfortunately had seen more funerals than celebratory sacraments of life; his kimono smelled like a grave. Amid the chants, to the horror of the mourners, the teen slammed a book in my palm. “Please, read it carefully”, he pleaded. Words were jammed up in my throat. How could he do such a disgraceful thing in the middle of the funeral? Doesn't he respect the dead? Tears flooded his aching eyes and I knew it right then, I had to read his penned diary of the sixteenth year. I could not bring myself to give him an unenthusiastic answer; I had to revere his words the way his belief resided in my approval. The boy’s grandfather was on the brink of death. Maybe, it was fate giving me a second chance to pronounce my own unsaid goodbyes. Maybe, his word would lessen the weight of my onerous memories. Nevertheless, will the teen himself be able to unload his baggage? Will the sorrow of his loneliness vanish like the tears from his grandfather’s hopeful eyes? Similar to his grandfather, would his heart stand strong for seventy-five years while the wounds of failure bled? Ask him on his 27th birthday.
The pristine images of the flowing white fabrics floated the virginal essence of life that conquered the departed soul. The soft waves of the sea murmured the melancholy of breathing memories. The urn to be used for gathering the ashes rested peacefully on the wooden mantle that once was a proud owner of an authentic Japanese watch symbolizing the courage of love. Love is certainly a funny thing. It dawns from sheer vanity of beauty and crumbles in its opulent absurdities.Frightening love. Love that dwells on fringes of insanity; love that consumes the very essence of its purity to the advent of insanity. Is love a bastard child of lunacy or an orphan seeking a home in fostered hearts? Ask the man who patiently waited for the bitter blade to touch his warm neck.
The boy, who had come with a smartly wrapped parcel containing some of his mother’s old kimonos along with his belongings, kept smiling as the birthplace bid a sorrowful adieu to one its children. Amid the ritualistic chants, the funeral proceeded onto the pompous street that prided in its mountains of silver and copper coins. The coins fell swiftly as pearls from a necklace. By honoring the dead,the honey road became an illusionary plaque of a melancholic heaven. Is then, paradise a distant path or is it found in the boots of the beggar who tonight will feast on a scrumptious sea bream and sake; the red comb a gift on her wedding night. The outlandish screeching of the cicadas interrupted the funeral procession as the villagers glanced at each other. The cries of the cicadas from the hill in the park metamorphosed into the merciful whimpers of a woman dwelling in the realms of her chastity under the roof. Once again the villagers glanced at each other. The rumor of a woman who lost her virginity three times preceded the procession.The woman who stood behind me in a white kimono grinned as only she knew the absolute truth. She had lost her virginity at the very sight of a wrinkle resting near her eye and the sting of her sagging breast bled for the first time. Not a single memory, just a flimsy shadow. Is old age the inevitable enemy of beauty that life prides upon? Do the baggage of our memories become detrimental as we head towards the dusk of our lives? Ask the woman who lost her virginity for the fourth time. Vile gossip is an illusion stemming from a nascent self-hatred .Like a chimerical ballet liberated from human errors, fantasy takes refuge into the arms of realism. Isn't it true that at times we choose to dwell in our rose-tinted prejudices? Ask the man standing in the shadow of a pilgrim in the third-class waiting room at the station. The voice of the drums seems to get closer.
The procession took a final turn on a narrow road that led to the ‘Mountain Peach Bath’; a man- made paradise. Suddenly, a wild uproar halted the funeral procession. “You worms. It's a small road just wide enough for automobiles to pass. If you were so shocked when you first realized what kind of intentions that road had, you had better open your eyes while you can and think about the intentions that lie behind that highway.", howled an infuriated young man. The public bath gave way to a newly built private bath and the Mountain Peach Bath’ could only be found in the history archives of fading memories. Somewhere, the crickets zealously chirped in a jar. The persistent odor that oozed from burning the pine boughs brought happiness to a gloomy heart. Did the ashes of the burned pine boughs cleanse the heart from the burdensome memories? Did the heart become a pictograph of purity, once again? Ask the heart who was anxious to eradicate the embedded orphan complex.
Underneath the persimmon trees, unaware of the large procession; the children played with their newly discovered half-sword. The blunt piece reminiscing in the memory of its sharpness lay on beneath the ancestral shrine. The samurai sword was chastised for tasting the blood of a grief-stricken woman. Did the sword have the right to take a genuine life? Who made the sword a messiah of justice? Ask the broken piece that drew blood.
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” yelled the sisters at the gate of the inn. Did they express the similar sentiments of the soul that had just departed from a sullied body? Or were these words of encouragement bestowed on the woman who in the memory of her father embarked on a journey of residing in the inns throughout Japan. Did the inn represented her unfulfilled dream or bear the burden of her unkind memories? Akin to the way I struggle to find my grandfather’s face in the dead. The deafening sounds of the drum were excruciating to my emptiness. As I peeked into the tea house, I lost track of the funeral. An adolescent dancing girl in her teens was happily playing the drums, entertaining the tea house patrons. A virginal beauty daunting to the eyes of her admirers; the dancing girl of Izu was a nomad of beauty and cleanness; a girl yet to be christened as a woman; someday.
Nearly after a somber hour, the funeral procession came to its end. Reminiscent to a soul noiselessly leaving a body in all its glory, the setting sun slipped into its watery grave leaving its memories in a violet sky. The soft waves of the sea melodiously hum a lullaby to the princess of the dragon palace who slept in the cerulean depths whilst a fairy tale was penned on a lover’s grave. On my way back from the cremation, weary laborers walked from the mountains into the village; a girl sat terrified of the sea, wondering if there would be someone caring enough to take her away from this place. The nightfall glistened in the moonlight. The moon shimmered in its loneliness; its virginal baggage getting heavier with every star that cropped up in the nightly ecstasy. As the moon pondered on its forlorn fate, the horse beauty flew like an arrow towards the moon. The drums of the dancing girl welcomed a new life in to this world as it gave its first virginal cry. That day, I had witnessed both, the echo of life and the stillness of death; everything in between lay scripted in the unread pages of the diary that fervently fluttered in my lap.
"Put your soul in the palm of my hand for me to look at, like a crystal jewel. I'll sketch it in words..."
When I embarked on the Kawabata journey, I was determined to read each of his literary works, come what may. I desired to view Kawabata’s primary strokes of his literary painting. A writer’s first work resembles the monochromatic background splashed on a bare canvass; its image yet unknown. To discover the root after cherishing the grandeur, the essence of the root is placed on a critical dais. Alas, I had seen the painting first and not the bare canvas. I was handed a completed art and as I sat there trying to decipher and classify every color that amalgamated in the quest for a divine nothingness , I listened to the silence that lingered between the scripted words, comprehended the lingering sentiments and the opulent beauty that flowed with every stroke on the bare canvas. At times when the silence consumed me, I could observe the anguish of a soul that shimmered like a crystal jewel amongst the sketched words. To comprehend the meaning of nothingness, a cry of a lonely heart, to evaluate a character without any prejudices, the quest for a virginal soul, to hear the earthly grave that now bestows the divinity of a grain that feeds sons and grandsons; a need for the “ears of a Buddha”. A privilege that Kawabata sometimes bestows.
September 23, 2013
I'm hovering between 3 and 4 stars for this book and I can't decide, because I liked some of the stories, others depressed me, while one in particular was horrifying. I mostly feel like a superficial and uninitiated reader who stood at the foot of a complex work, but was not able to grasp it. Moreover, I let my personal weaknesses flood my perceiving of Kawabata's writing, judging it and condemning it for the uncomfortable and unbearable feelings he aroused inside me.
I don't even know whom to recommend this book to - people in a joyful state might see their happiness slip through their fingers, while people who are already sad will find themselves on the brink of depression. I might recommend it to the few that are in possession of a clear, balanced mind, as only they could appreciate the disjointed, chaotic world peopled by Kawabata's troubled characters.
There is not one single happy soul in this collection of short stories, with themes like alienation, loss, deception or cruelty. The wife of a scientist, whose husband is obsessed with having children, is unhappy in her marriage and feels attracted to a younger girl; a man literally on fire is brought to a hospital full of dying people, with a sad story of their own; a girl abandoned by her lover talks to his soul after he dies; survivors of war, homeless and starving, can no longer find their place in the post-war Japan; a widow remembers how she used to project the world in a mirror, for the comfort of her dying husband.
The sole exception among these plagued characters might be the orphaned student who becomes infatuated with a teenage dancing girl; he is not yet damaged by life, although he is pursued by melancholy. The Dancing Girl of Izu was my favorite story, along with Moon in Water. It seems wrong though to use notions as 'like' or 'enjoy' regarding Kawabata's stories in this collection. They are tormenting, unsettling and guarantee for the most unpleasant of reading experiences. The most horrifying was the story about a collector of birds who assumes the role of God with his live possessions, with power of life and death upon them. It's disturbing to enter this man's mind and taste his indifference towards life, whether it's the beating heart of a puppy or that of a bird. I felt sick while reading this.
I feel my review is not doing justice to this book, but I might come back to these stories after reading some more Kawabata novels. I might understand them better. I might even surpass my weaknesses. I wish I could.
I don't even know whom to recommend this book to - people in a joyful state might see their happiness slip through their fingers, while people who are already sad will find themselves on the brink of depression. I might recommend it to the few that are in possession of a clear, balanced mind, as only they could appreciate the disjointed, chaotic world peopled by Kawabata's troubled characters.
There is not one single happy soul in this collection of short stories, with themes like alienation, loss, deception or cruelty. The wife of a scientist, whose husband is obsessed with having children, is unhappy in her marriage and feels attracted to a younger girl; a man literally on fire is brought to a hospital full of dying people, with a sad story of their own; a girl abandoned by her lover talks to his soul after he dies; survivors of war, homeless and starving, can no longer find their place in the post-war Japan; a widow remembers how she used to project the world in a mirror, for the comfort of her dying husband.
The sole exception among these plagued characters might be the orphaned student who becomes infatuated with a teenage dancing girl; he is not yet damaged by life, although he is pursued by melancholy. The Dancing Girl of Izu was my favorite story, along with Moon in Water. It seems wrong though to use notions as 'like' or 'enjoy' regarding Kawabata's stories in this collection. They are tormenting, unsettling and guarantee for the most unpleasant of reading experiences. The most horrifying was the story about a collector of birds who assumes the role of God with his live possessions, with power of life and death upon them. It's disturbing to enter this man's mind and taste his indifference towards life, whether it's the beating heart of a puppy or that of a bird. I felt sick while reading this.
I feel my review is not doing justice to this book, but I might come back to these stories after reading some more Kawabata novels. I might understand them better. I might even surpass my weaknesses. I wish I could.
May 30, 2018
Everytime i read for "Yasunari Kawabata" i got that feeling of being impressed and depressed at the same time ... there was a dark shadows that haunted me for days after reading this book, now that i also read for "Natsume Soseki" and " Yokio Mishima" i started to believe its a Japanese thing.
June 20, 2024
A collection of short stories, some of which are (at least partially) autobiographical. I really liked the one that lends the book its title, while I struggled with others. All in all it's a book worth reading to appreciate the full extent of the author's poetics, but personally I liked other of his works better.
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Una raccolta di racconti, alcuni dei quali (almeno parzialmente) autobiografici. Mi è piaciuto molto quello che dà il titolo al libro, mentre con altri ho faticato. Tutto sommato è un libro che vale la pena leggere per apprezzare tutta la portata della poetica dell'autore, ma personalmente ho preferito altre sue opere.
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Una raccolta di racconti, alcuni dei quali (almeno parzialmente) autobiografici. Mi è piaciuto molto quello che dà il titolo al libro, mentre con altri ho faticato. Tutto sommato è un libro che vale la pena leggere per apprezzare tutta la portata della poetica dell'autore, ma personalmente ho preferito altre sue opere.
January 25, 2019
Back in early 2016 I happened to read kawabata's 'Snow Country', a work filled with a prose of such subtle, provocative, and dreamlike beauty. It was my first time reading the Nobel Prize recipient, and it probably remains the best Japanese novel I have read to date. I'd always been meaning to read more of his novels, but, as is generally the case, there are always so many other books that catch my eye, I never read him again, until now. I came across this collection of short stories cheap in a used bookstore and thought, yes, why not.
Written as fiction but with autobiographical elements throughout, I found the best stories were featured in the first half of the book, 'The Dancing Girl of Izu', Diary of my Sixteenth Year', 'Oil', and 'The Master of Funerals' were really good, with death and ageing being a strong theme in most of them. His writing has melancholic tones, but still carries a delicate beauty that never feels despondent. Whereas in the second half the stories seemed to get shorter and shorter, dealing with loss and memory which felt more like snippets than stories. 'The Honey Road', The Moon', Horse Beauty' and 'Burning the Pine Boughs' weren't bad. But the others didn't get off the ground to really have an impact on me.
I don't read Japanese literature that often now, and find it really helps to either have visited Japan, or have some good general knowledge of their culture and pastimes to truly get the best out of their books. This was one of the more easier reads, and I do love his spare and reposeful style.
Written as fiction but with autobiographical elements throughout, I found the best stories were featured in the first half of the book, 'The Dancing Girl of Izu', Diary of my Sixteenth Year', 'Oil', and 'The Master of Funerals' were really good, with death and ageing being a strong theme in most of them. His writing has melancholic tones, but still carries a delicate beauty that never feels despondent. Whereas in the second half the stories seemed to get shorter and shorter, dealing with loss and memory which felt more like snippets than stories. 'The Honey Road', The Moon', Horse Beauty' and 'Burning the Pine Boughs' weren't bad. But the others didn't get off the ground to really have an impact on me.
I don't read Japanese literature that often now, and find it really helps to either have visited Japan, or have some good general knowledge of their culture and pastimes to truly get the best out of their books. This was one of the more easier reads, and I do love his spare and reposeful style.
June 1, 2023
Là m?t ng??i yêu Kawabata s?u s?c trong r?t nhi?u n?m c?ng v?i b? OCD nên m?i l?n th?y có cu?n d?ch m?i c?a Kawabata là b?t mode m? ch?ng nh?n 10 l?n ghê g?m nh?ng ph?i nói là b?n bìa c?ng này c?a Tao ?àn th?t khi?n cho con báo l?ng l?n này ph?i hóa mèo ;)) D?ch gi? Nam Tr?n cho t?i ?? hai ?i?u c?n ph?i có ??i v?i m?t cu?n d?ch Kawabata: ?? chính xác và ng?n ng? phù h?p.
Th?t ra t?i ??u có bi?t ti?ng Nh?t ??u nh?ng d?a vào profile c?a Nam Tr?n c?ng v?i ?? ??c nhi?u cu?n ?ng này d?ch c?ng nh? s? ch?n chu trong ghi chú, trình bày thì t?i th?y yên t?m l?m =)) Th?t ra c?ng kh?ng h?n 10 ?i?m tròn tr?nh ??u vì Nam Tr?n dùng l?i nói ??a ph??ng quá. T?i kh?ng bi?t có ph?i b?n th?n Kawabata c?ng hay dùng ng?n ng? v?y nên d?ch gi? c? tình kh?ng. Anw th?t ra vì t?i ch?i v?i d?n ?? mi?n nên ??c th?y c?ng h?i l?n c?n m?t chút th?i. (Các b?n mi?n khác c?m th?y sao khi ??c sách d?ch toàn ti?ng B?c nh??)
Nh?ng bù l?i có m?t ?i?u ph?i cho Nam Tr?n 11 ?i?m là danh m?c truy?n quá ??nh. T?i kh?ng hi?u ?ng Nam Tr?n ch?n truy?n và x?p theo nguyên t?c nào (r? ràng kh?ng ph?i theo th?i gian vi?t) nh?ng v?i t?i thì tuy?t v?i. Gi? s? xáo tr?n các ph?n thì t?i kh?ng ngh? mình có th? ??c liên t?c và th?a m?n sau khi k?t thúc t?i v?y. Ngh? l?i thì nói nh? ba ph?n c?a sex tiêu chu?n v?y. ??u tiên là nh?ng truy?n có ph?n quen thu?c, nh? nhàng (t?t nhiên v?n r?t s?u); sau ?ó ??n ph?n hardcore th?t s? l?m lúc ?ang ?n ph?i qu?ng sách ?i vì kinh t?m; sau ?ó gi?m d?n m?t chút ?? kinh t?m và k?t b?ng m?t truy?n mà kh?ng có b?t c? truy?n nào khác trong tuy?n t?p này có th? thay th?. Nh? th?, t?i v?a tìm ???c Kawabata th?n th??ng, v?a ?? s?c v?i cái m?i và cu?i cùng, l?i tìm ???c Kawabata ? m?t m?c ?? s?u h?n.
Riêng t? mà nói thì ??y là l?n ?oc Kawabata s?u n?ng nh?t ??i t?i. L?n ??u t?i ??c Kawabata c?ng vào mùa hè, n?m 11 tu?i. Hè n?m ?ó t?i còn ??c nhi?u cu?n kinh ?i?n khác, và c? sau này t?ng mê nhi?u nhà v?n khác, nh?ng t?i b?y gi?, Kawabata v?n là ng??i duy nh?t t?i ??c ?i ??c l?i và m?i l?n l?i tìm ???c nh?ng ni?m h?nh phúc và tình yêu m?i (xin tri ?n m?t ph?n cho n?o cá vàng). Ngh? t?i Kawabata là ngh? t?i m?t tr?a hè ??ng im, th?i gian nh? b?t ??ng nh?ng m?t cánh ng?c lan ?? r?i và chui vào lòng tay. H?i ?ó ??c truy?n Th?y Nguy?t, th?t quá bé ?? hi?u nó, nh?ng nó v?n ?eo ?u?i và day d?t sau ng?n ?y n?m, t?i m?c mua trang ph?c nh? c? v? ?? làm v??n d??i c?a s? lu?n. C?ng t?ng ?y n?m t?i t? h?i cu?c ??i mình có l? ?? khác n?u ngày ?ó kh?ng ??c Kawabata. Trong t?i lu?n là cu?c ??u tranh r?ng có ti?p t?c d?n s?u vào ??c Kawabata h?t l?n này t?i l?n khác. Nh?ng n?m nay là n?m ??p nh?t ??i t?i khi nh?ng m?nh ghép t??ng ch?ng r?i r?c nay ?? k?t n?i thành m?t b?c tranh hoàn ch?nh v? con ng??i t?i. T?i ?? bi?t mình chính xác là gì và Kawabata hi?n lên nh? m?t m?nh ghép l?n mà t?i ?? may m?n v? ???c t? nh?. T?i v?n lu?n lu?n là nh? th?, lo?i ng??i ch? s?ng d?a vào c?m giác. Nh?ng m?t khi b?c tranh hoàn ch?nh t?c là ta ph?i ti?p t?c ?i lên m?t c?i khác. ? ??y, nh?ng ?i?u x?u xa v? b?n th?n - c?ng nh? s? kinh t?m trong sách c?a Kawabata - hi?n lên r? ràng h?n nh?ng kh?ng còn g?y ra ph?n n? hay xa lánh, mà ??n gi?n là ???c nhìn ra. Truy?n cu?i cùng, Tuy?t ??u mùa ??nh Phú S?, c?ng gi?ng nh? Th?y Nguy?t ? m?t c?i khác. S? tình r?i v?n s? v?y, ch? có cách nhìn khác ?i. Kh?ng hi?u là t?i ?? may m?n lu?n có ?úng cái mình c?n hay th?t ra khi ?? sang trang, m?i ?i?u tr??c kia kh?ng th?y nay t? ??ng hi?n lên? Nói chung ??c xong là m?n nguy?n 10 ph?n, xin cúi ??u c?m ?n Nam Tr?n và Tao ?àn và c? cái s? m?nh này hoho M?y ai ngoài 30 ?? ?i xong m?t cu?c ??i và b??c vào ti?p m?t cu?c ??i m?i toanh hoho
Th?t ra t?i ??u có bi?t ti?ng Nh?t ??u nh?ng d?a vào profile c?a Nam Tr?n c?ng v?i ?? ??c nhi?u cu?n ?ng này d?ch c?ng nh? s? ch?n chu trong ghi chú, trình bày thì t?i th?y yên t?m l?m =)) Th?t ra c?ng kh?ng h?n 10 ?i?m tròn tr?nh ??u vì Nam Tr?n dùng l?i nói ??a ph??ng quá. T?i kh?ng bi?t có ph?i b?n th?n Kawabata c?ng hay dùng ng?n ng? v?y nên d?ch gi? c? tình kh?ng. Anw th?t ra vì t?i ch?i v?i d?n ?? mi?n nên ??c th?y c?ng h?i l?n c?n m?t chút th?i. (Các b?n mi?n khác c?m th?y sao khi ??c sách d?ch toàn ti?ng B?c nh??)
Nh?ng bù l?i có m?t ?i?u ph?i cho Nam Tr?n 11 ?i?m là danh m?c truy?n quá ??nh. T?i kh?ng hi?u ?ng Nam Tr?n ch?n truy?n và x?p theo nguyên t?c nào (r? ràng kh?ng ph?i theo th?i gian vi?t) nh?ng v?i t?i thì tuy?t v?i. Gi? s? xáo tr?n các ph?n thì t?i kh?ng ngh? mình có th? ??c liên t?c và th?a m?n sau khi k?t thúc t?i v?y. Ngh? l?i thì nói nh? ba ph?n c?a sex tiêu chu?n v?y. ??u tiên là nh?ng truy?n có ph?n quen thu?c, nh? nhàng (t?t nhiên v?n r?t s?u); sau ?ó ??n ph?n hardcore th?t s? l?m lúc ?ang ?n ph?i qu?ng sách ?i vì kinh t?m; sau ?ó gi?m d?n m?t chút ?? kinh t?m và k?t b?ng m?t truy?n mà kh?ng có b?t c? truy?n nào khác trong tuy?n t?p này có th? thay th?. Nh? th?, t?i v?a tìm ???c Kawabata th?n th??ng, v?a ?? s?c v?i cái m?i và cu?i cùng, l?i tìm ???c Kawabata ? m?t m?c ?? s?u h?n.
Riêng t? mà nói thì ??y là l?n ?oc Kawabata s?u n?ng nh?t ??i t?i. L?n ??u t?i ??c Kawabata c?ng vào mùa hè, n?m 11 tu?i. Hè n?m ?ó t?i còn ??c nhi?u cu?n kinh ?i?n khác, và c? sau này t?ng mê nhi?u nhà v?n khác, nh?ng t?i b?y gi?, Kawabata v?n là ng??i duy nh?t t?i ??c ?i ??c l?i và m?i l?n l?i tìm ???c nh?ng ni?m h?nh phúc và tình yêu m?i (xin tri ?n m?t ph?n cho n?o cá vàng). Ngh? t?i Kawabata là ngh? t?i m?t tr?a hè ??ng im, th?i gian nh? b?t ??ng nh?ng m?t cánh ng?c lan ?? r?i và chui vào lòng tay. H?i ?ó ??c truy?n Th?y Nguy?t, th?t quá bé ?? hi?u nó, nh?ng nó v?n ?eo ?u?i và day d?t sau ng?n ?y n?m, t?i m?c mua trang ph?c nh? c? v? ?? làm v??n d??i c?a s? lu?n. C?ng t?ng ?y n?m t?i t? h?i cu?c ??i mình có l? ?? khác n?u ngày ?ó kh?ng ??c Kawabata. Trong t?i lu?n là cu?c ??u tranh r?ng có ti?p t?c d?n s?u vào ??c Kawabata h?t l?n này t?i l?n khác. Nh?ng n?m nay là n?m ??p nh?t ??i t?i khi nh?ng m?nh ghép t??ng ch?ng r?i r?c nay ?? k?t n?i thành m?t b?c tranh hoàn ch?nh v? con ng??i t?i. T?i ?? bi?t mình chính xác là gì và Kawabata hi?n lên nh? m?t m?nh ghép l?n mà t?i ?? may m?n v? ???c t? nh?. T?i v?n lu?n lu?n là nh? th?, lo?i ng??i ch? s?ng d?a vào c?m giác. Nh?ng m?t khi b?c tranh hoàn ch?nh t?c là ta ph?i ti?p t?c ?i lên m?t c?i khác. ? ??y, nh?ng ?i?u x?u xa v? b?n th?n - c?ng nh? s? kinh t?m trong sách c?a Kawabata - hi?n lên r? ràng h?n nh?ng kh?ng còn g?y ra ph?n n? hay xa lánh, mà ??n gi?n là ???c nhìn ra. Truy?n cu?i cùng, Tuy?t ??u mùa ??nh Phú S?, c?ng gi?ng nh? Th?y Nguy?t ? m?t c?i khác. S? tình r?i v?n s? v?y, ch? có cách nhìn khác ?i. Kh?ng hi?u là t?i ?? may m?n lu?n có ?úng cái mình c?n hay th?t ra khi ?? sang trang, m?i ?i?u tr??c kia kh?ng th?y nay t? ??ng hi?n lên? Nói chung ??c xong là m?n nguy?n 10 ph?n, xin cúi ??u c?m ?n Nam Tr?n và Tao ?àn và c? cái s? m?nh này hoho M?y ai ngoài 30 ?? ?i xong m?t cu?c ??i và b??c vào ti?p m?t cu?c ??i m?i toanh hoho
July 1, 2017
Relato breve de Kawabata. Describe el corto viaje de un estudiante que se encuentra en su camino unos músicos ambulantes.
En realidad no se puede decir mucho de este libro, o lo mismo, se puede decir tanto de él, pero es irrelevante. Llamar impresionista a esta obra es la mejor forma de describirla. Puesto que solo quien la lea, y como la lea, podrá llegar sentir el mensaje de amor y soledad que entrega.
En realidad no se puede decir mucho de este libro, o lo mismo, se puede decir tanto de él, pero es irrelevante. Llamar impresionista a esta obra es la mejor forma de describirla. Puesto que solo quien la lea, y como la lea, podrá llegar sentir el mensaje de amor y soledad que entrega.
April 1, 2020
Bellamente narrada, con excelente destreza, dulce melancolía, tierna y pura experiencia vívida, este relato, especialmente, lo viví como una experiencia religiosa, agitó mi corazón, revivió sentimientos confusos y atenuados por el tiempo ?oh triste alegría de la adolescencia! Fascinante candidez, que sobrecoge el cuerpo y enternece el alma. Como un relato escrito magistralmente puede tener un efecto lenitivo. Muy evocador, recomendadisímo a todos los espíritus sensibles.
April 17, 2023
The title story is by Kawabata; this volume also includes three stories by Inoue.
The Izu Dancer is a well-known short story by Yasunari Kawabata which appeared in 1954 in the Atlantic Monthly.
Sometimes translated as The Dancing Girl of Izu, this story follows a 19 year old student on a summer walking tour of the Izu Peninsula. He encounters a small troupe of itinerant entertainers and develops a crush on a girl who he believes is 15. He befriends her brother and learns she is 13, and realizes she is just a child.
All the quiet moments typical of Kawabata and the understatement of Japanese literature are intensified by the transient nature of traveling, and the impermanence of summer. We leave the youth on a boat back to Tokyo, crying his eyes out, "soon nothing would remain."
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The three stories by Yasushi Inoue also have a connection to the Izu Peninsula (moreover, the author felt a personal connection to the area). These stories are reviewed under Inoue's book .
The Izu Dancer is a well-known short story by Yasunari Kawabata which appeared in 1954 in the Atlantic Monthly.
Sometimes translated as The Dancing Girl of Izu, this story follows a 19 year old student on a summer walking tour of the Izu Peninsula. He encounters a small troupe of itinerant entertainers and develops a crush on a girl who he believes is 15. He befriends her brother and learns she is 13, and realizes she is just a child.
All the quiet moments typical of Kawabata and the understatement of Japanese literature are intensified by the transient nature of traveling, and the impermanence of summer. We leave the youth on a boat back to Tokyo, crying his eyes out, "soon nothing would remain."
>>
The three stories by Yasushi Inoue also have a connection to the Izu Peninsula (moreover, the author felt a personal connection to the area). These stories are reviewed under Inoue's book .
October 16, 2023
"The Dancing Girl of Izu" (Izu no Odoriko) was the first notable work I read by Kawabata. I was in my very early 20s and this short story left a mark. Kawabata has a unique way of writing. He tends to focus on the subtle emotional aspects in the form of poetic prose. This form of writing can be difficult to understand sometimes, it’s a lot of reading between the words to capture the hidden agenda. Surprisingly, I think Kawabata wrote the simplest form of poetic prose, light as a feather when you read it subconsciously, but the gravity of it all hits you upon pondering.
I recently visited the southern tip of Izu and it seemed like a nice time to reflect on this story again. There were other astonishingly short stories in the collection, probably also part of "Palm of the Hand Stories". A lot of the stories including the titular one have semi-autobiographical touches throughout, and as a reader I enjoyed it.
One notable short story, or rather one that I quite liked (other than the titular one) is probably "Oil" (also semi-autobiographical).
I recently visited the southern tip of Izu and it seemed like a nice time to reflect on this story again. There were other astonishingly short stories in the collection, probably also part of "Palm of the Hand Stories". A lot of the stories including the titular one have semi-autobiographical touches throughout, and as a reader I enjoyed it.
One notable short story, or rather one that I quite liked (other than the titular one) is probably "Oil" (also semi-autobiographical).
January 5, 2020
Come in molte storie di Kawabata, l'amore è discreto e inespresso, suggerito raffinato, è un silenzioso risveglio romantico, una trascendenza interiore che, come un funambolo, cerca il suo equilibrio tra la gioia o il dolore di un desiderio insoddisfatto.
La magia di questo autore sta nella gamma di emozioni essenziali ciascuna con un fascino folle e naturale capace di dare vita a paesaggi e persone nei loro colori, gesti e parole, cogliendone l’essenza più profonda
May 17, 2023
Te?ko je objasniti za?to su ove dve vinjete, odnosno “pri?e za dlan”, kojima bi najpribli?niji opis bio haiku u formi proze, simpati?ne. Sadr?ajno jednostavne, reklo bi se jedva vredne zapisivanja, ipak proizvode knji?evno ose?anje kome je sve podre?eno i koje grade svakim elementom: asocijativnom naracijom, fragmentarnim izjavama likova, promi?ljenim motivima. Poput, na primer, izbledelih se?anja od kojih ostanu jasne samo impresije, ostaju i utisci nakon i??itavanja pri?a ovog Japanskog nobelovca. To je, uostalom, njegov cilj.
?to se samog izdanja ti?e, u startu ho?u da naglasim da je zasigurno izuzetno nezahvalno prevoditi neosenzualiste i mislim da se u prevodu, konkretno Kavabatinih dela, gubi isuvi?e s obzirom na njegov specifi?an poetski izraz, ?iji se kvalitet mo?e tek naslutiti van okvira Japanskog jezika. ?ak i sa tim na umu.. recimo da imam sumnje na osnovu kojih verujem da je ovaj prevod mogao biti bolji.
?to se samog izdanja ti?e, u startu ho?u da naglasim da je zasigurno izuzetno nezahvalno prevoditi neosenzualiste i mislim da se u prevodu, konkretno Kavabatinih dela, gubi isuvi?e s obzirom na njegov specifi?an poetski izraz, ?iji se kvalitet mo?e tek naslutiti van okvira Japanskog jezika. ?ak i sa tim na umu.. recimo da imam sumnje na osnovu kojih verujem da je ovaj prevod mogao biti bolji.
April 15, 2020
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- ?????????????????????? ??????????????? ???????????????????? ???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
- ?????????????????? (???????) ??????? 2015 ???????????????????????????????? ?????????????? ???????????????????? eng ????????? ???????????????????????? ???????????? ??? ????????? ?????? ???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? ????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? ?????????????????????????? ????????????????????????????? ????????
- ?????????????????? ???????????????????????? ?????????????????????????????????????????? ??????????????????????????????????????
- ???????????????? (Of Birds and Beats) ?????? "???????????" ????????? ????????????????????? ??????????????????? ???????????? ?? ??????????????????????? ?????????????? Beats ??????????????????????????? ????????????????????
- ?????? = ????????? (????? ?????) + ????? (???????????)
- ?????????????????????? ??????????????? ???????????????????? ???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
June 2, 2019
Este es un relato que destaca porque el autor nos relata acontecimientos de su vida de forma velada como bien dice ya la sipnosis de este libro, narrado de forma sencilla y con una dulzura y belleza fascinantes. Un relato precioso que lo sientes más que lo lees y con un final que hace evocar a la tristeza y la nostalgia.
November 12, 2024
Kh?ng ph?i truy?n nào c?ng xu?t s?c nh?ng ch? c?n truy?n ??u, C? ?ào x? Izu và truy?n cu?i, Tuy?t trên ??nh Phú S? là ?? 5 sao.
August 4, 2021
Este libro contiene el relato de "La bailarina de Izu" y otras historias que en su mayoría parecen bastante biográficas. El texto que da título al libro es corto pero lleno de significados. La escritura de Kawabata nunca decepciona y siempre encuentra una profundidad en los detalles más ínfimos, concentrándose en la sensibilidad del amor y la atracción. Por otra parte, la mayoría de los relatos que siguen son escritos en forma de diario, lo que permite conocer y sentir la dura infancia del autor, aunque el asegura sentirse (en su mayoría) no afectado por los sucesos que le ocurren con solo unos a?os de vida. Finalmente, el libro cierra con una variedad de cuentos cortos que realmente no permiten adentrarse por completo en las historias, por lo que solo uno o dos resaltaron para mí. Creo que estos no quedan bien con el contenido anterior al libro, pero eso ya es una decisión editorial. En general disfruté mucho de esta lectura y solo puedo reafirmar mi gusto por Kawabata.
January 30, 2013
Five stars for "The Dancing Girl..." Classic Kawabata in many respects, but there's also sobbing on a random schoolboy at the end.
The rest of the stories were lacking in sustenance, I felt. Shikoku had a few mentions, about which I was a faintly excited, but they've rather put me off the other . And without them I'll never achieve "Kawabata Completion"! Is it just me, but does "palm-of-the-hand" sound like they're supposed to be a bit raunchy?
The rest of the stories were lacking in sustenance, I felt. Shikoku had a few mentions, about which I was a faintly excited, but they've rather put me off the other . And without them I'll never achieve "Kawabata Completion"! Is it just me, but does "palm-of-the-hand" sound like they're supposed to be a bit raunchy?
May 9, 2014
5 new exemplary beauty, sometimes tight and will require breaks and reflection (or even several readings) to understand the full meaning. 5 news that we speak of love with subtlety and unspoken, old age and beauty of death exacerbates sensations and feelings.
5 new contemplative and poetic that emphasizes the impermanence and transience of happiness in life.
"The danseuze Izu" is the first publication of Kawabata. This new, published in 1926, made him famous man who would become one of the greatest Japanese authors.
The five that make up the new collection here this all revolve around the subject of love, the beauty of women and death, as we frequently find in his work.
The danseuze Izu (1926):
This first novel, which gives its name to the collection, inspired by the personal experience of the author.
In 1918, Kawabata on a trip to Izu. During his journey on foot, he meets a traveling theater troupe.
We find the same frame in the story where the narrator is fascinated by the beauty of one of the young actresses. It gives its way to that of the company, binds friendship with the leader, Eikichi to get closer to her sister, the beautiful Kaoru which will prove very young.
" Pour conserver ce reflet du monde, il aurait sacrifié sa vie. Certain jour, après une forte averse, tous deux contemplaient la lune reflétée dans une flaque d'eau. Cette lune, dont on pouvait à peine dire qu'elle fut l'illusion d'une illusion, resurgit dans le coeur de Kyoko. "
" On ne connait que le reflet de son visage ; ces traits qui vous sont personnels, uniques, vous demeurent invisibles. On se touche la figure chaque jour, comme si les traits que renvoie le miroir étaient ceux de votre vrai visage..."
5 new contemplative and poetic that emphasizes the impermanence and transience of happiness in life.
"The danseuze Izu" is the first publication of Kawabata. This new, published in 1926, made him famous man who would become one of the greatest Japanese authors.
The five that make up the new collection here this all revolve around the subject of love, the beauty of women and death, as we frequently find in his work.
The danseuze Izu (1926):
This first novel, which gives its name to the collection, inspired by the personal experience of the author.
In 1918, Kawabata on a trip to Izu. During his journey on foot, he meets a traveling theater troupe.
We find the same frame in the story where the narrator is fascinated by the beauty of one of the young actresses. It gives its way to that of the company, binds friendship with the leader, Eikichi to get closer to her sister, the beautiful Kaoru which will prove very young.
" Pour conserver ce reflet du monde, il aurait sacrifié sa vie. Certain jour, après une forte averse, tous deux contemplaient la lune reflétée dans une flaque d'eau. Cette lune, dont on pouvait à peine dire qu'elle fut l'illusion d'une illusion, resurgit dans le coeur de Kyoko. "
" On ne connait que le reflet de son visage ; ces traits qui vous sont personnels, uniques, vous demeurent invisibles. On se touche la figure chaque jour, comme si les traits que renvoie le miroir étaient ceux de votre vrai visage..."
February 13, 2018
“La danzatrice di Izu” è uno dei primissimi racconti di Kawabata che ha avuto successo soltanto dopo qualche anno dalla sua pubblicazione e che in Giappone ora gode una fama immensa. Viene inserito in quasi tutte le antologie scolastiche, sono stati fatti anime, manga e diverse produzioni cinematografiche e quindi, inevitabilmente, del racconto originario è rimasto ben poco. “La danzatrice di Izu” non è per niente una storia d’amore, quanto una storia di amicizia, in cui Kawabata soltanto apparentemente ritorna ad uno stile o ai temi classici: la vena moderna e rivoluzionaria di Kawabata è sempre nella sua scrittura, in quel “lirismo controllato” che si muove alla ricerca della bellezza.
February 10, 2020
Ничего особенного в этой повести нет, но она навсегда запомнится. Простая история студента, путешествующего с группой бродячих артистов. Среди них есть танцовщица, очень молодая девочка, в которую влюбляется герой. Невероятно чистая история, отношение героя к случайным людям и их ответное отношение к нему исполнено взаимной любовью и уважением. Очень добрая повесть о чистой любви.
May 23, 2023
Corta para uma tarde de sábado onde eu fui procurar na estante algo que fosse rápido para concluir a leitura e que fosse de um autor que estivesse me aguardando na estante há muito tempo. Foi assim que meus dedos pararam na lombada de “A dan?arina de Izu” do ganhador do Nobel e Literatura Yasunari Kawabata.
Quando tenho altas expectativas para conhecer um autor, sempre busco o título “menos hypado” que é para ajudar a controlar a ansiedade e aproveitar a jornada com mais carinho.
A minha edi??o é da Esta??o Liberdade e conta com o ensaio “O século de Kawabata” por Meiko Shimon que foi de grande valia após a leitura da novela para me ajudar com um panorama sobre vida e obra do autor, bem como contexto histórico.
Um jovem de 19 anos está em uma peregrina??o de férias quando encontra uma trupe de artistas, os acompanha por alguns dias e tenta desvendar os segredos do primeiro amor.
“(…) Durante as viagens, precisamos de companhia. E no curso da vida, de amizades. (…)” p.21
O autor tem uma escrita precisa, n?o há excesso em seu texto, o leitor precisa estar completamente imerso nas páginas para acompanhar as mudan?as de cenário sem aviso prévio.
Gostei muito da experiência de leitura, a sutileza e delicadeza do autor ao tratar de temas como solid?o e amor era o que eu precisava naquele momento em que fiz a leitura. Com certeza lerei outras obras, “O país das Neves” já foi para lista de desejados e talvez “Mil tsurus” n?o demore para sair da estante.
December 8, 2024
uma leitura muitíssima delicada. confesso que eu estava um pouco distante do Kawabata por ter visto incansavelmente durante a gradua??o, mas ler por livre e espont?nea vontade deixa tudo mais prazeroso. a dan?arina de izu vai nos apresentar um amor puro de um personagem pelo outro? um rapaz, estudante, de 19 anos e a a pequena dan?arina de apenas 13. no come?o eu estava com um pé atrás com esse plot, com medo de ir pra um caminho n?o muito legal, mas a forma como o kawabata descreve esse amor, o momento que o personagem percebe que, embaixo daquela maquiagem, é só uma crian?a e na mesma hora corta essa ideia de algo a mais, sério, é t?o delicado. e a dan?arina em nenhum momento é for?adamente amadurecida, ela tem os trejeitos e as brincadeiras de uma crian?a, porque é o que ela é. lindo.
September 6, 2020
?????????? ????? ??????? ????? ?????????? ???.?? ?????????????????. ?????? ??? ????? ?????. ????? ????????? ???? ???????? ????????? ??????. ??. ?????????? ??????? ?????? ????????? ???????????? ????? ??????????????????. ??? ???????????? ??????. ??????? ??????? ??? ????? ??????.. ???? ???????? ????????? ???????????? ?? ???????? ?????? ????????? ??? ???????? ???????. ??????????? ???? ??????? ???. ????????????????? ????????????? ?????????? ???????? ??????? ???. ?????????????? ????????? ????????????? ????????? ???????????? ?????? ?????? ?????? ???????? ????????? ????????? ?????? ??? ???????. ???? ????? ???????? ?????! ?????? ?????? ??????? ?????????? ?????!
November 18, 2020
Mo?da, otkri?e godine.
May 9, 2023
?????? ????? ????? ?? ??? ??? ????? ???????:- ????? ????? ?????? ?????? ????? ?? ?????? ????? ???????.... ??? ?? ???? ????? ??????? ????? ????? ??? ?????? ??? ??? ???????? ??????? ??? ?????_????? _????? ?? ?????? ?????.0
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???? ??????? ?? "??? ?????"? ?? ??? ???????? ??? ???? ??????? ???? ??????? ????? ??? ????? ????? ?????? ?? ????? ???????? ????????. ?????? ??????? ?? ???? ??????? ?? ???? ????? ?????? ??????? ??????? ????? ???? ?? ????? ??? ???? ??????. ??? ???????? ???? ?????? ???? ????? ??? ?????? ??????? ??? ??????? ?? ????? ?? ?? ???? ?? ??????? ???? ?? ??? ??? ??? ???? ??? ??? ???? ???? ?? ???? ?? ???? ?? ????? ???????? ?????? ?????? ???? ????? ?? ???????... ???????? ??????? "????? ????" ???? ?????? ???????? ?????? ????? ????? ??????? ?????? ????? ?????? ... ???????? ??????? ???? " ??? ???? ?????" ???? ?????? ??????? ?????. ????? ??? ???? ??? ?????? ?? ????. ?? ????? ?????? ??????? ???? ?? ????? ???? ????? ???? ????? ????? ?? ?????? ?????? ????? ???? ???? ???? ??? ??? ??????? ???? ??????? ?? ????? ??? ???????? ??????? ?? ?????? ?????? ????? ???? ?? ?? ???? ??????? ??? ??? ????? ?????? ???? ?? ?????? ????? ????? ? ???? ?????? ... "???????? ????????" ???? ????? ?? ????? ??????? ???? ?????? ????? ???????. ?? ????? ????? ?? ??????? ??? ????? ??????? ???? ???? ?? ?????? ??? ?????? ???? ?????? ?? ?????? ?????? ???? ????. ????? ??? ?? ?? ??? ??????? ?????? ?? ??????? ????? ? ???? ???????? ??? ?? ???? ... "??? ??????" ???? ??????? ???????. ??????? ?????? ??????? ?????? ???? ??????? ???????? ?????? ??????. ???? ?????? ?? ????? ??????? ????? ????? ????? ????????? ?????? ????? ?? ??????? ??? ?? ???? ??????? ???? ????? ?????? ?????? ... "???? ?????" ???? ???? ?????? ????? ?? ?? ?? ????. ??? ????? ?? ???????? ?? ????? ????? ???? ?????? ????? ????? ?????? ? ??? ?? ???? ????? ????? ???????? ???? ??? ??????? ????? ???? ??? ... "??????? ???????" ????? ????? ??????? ??? ?? ????? ?? ?? ?????? ??????? ???????? ????????? ????? ??????? ... ?? ??? ?? ??? ????? "??? ?????" ???? ?? ???? ????? "???????". ?? ????? ?? ?????? ????? ???? ?????? ????? ?? ??????. ?? ??????? ??????? ???? ???? ???????? ???? ?????? ???? ????? ??? ??????? ????? ???? ?? ????? ?? ????? ??? ?? ??????? ????????? ???????. ??? ?? ???? ?? ????? ???? ????? "?????? ????" ??????? ???? ?? ????? ???? ??????. ??????? ??????? ???? ?????? ??? ??????? ???????? ????? ???? ???? ???? ?? ?????? ??? ????????!.0
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January 12, 2018
Autore: giapponese (1899-1972). Racconto.
Conosco troppo poco la narrativa giapponese per poter capire il ruolo innovativo di Kawabata e conosco abbastanza bene la natura americana per non prendere per buona la dichiarazione di Donald Keene sul fatto che gli americani capivano Kawabata più del giapponesi.
Ma a Keene possiamo perdonare l’entusiasmo vista la sua carriera decennale di esperto iamatologo.
Il racconto è breve e, come già presente nei suoi temi, riguarda un viaggio. Un giovane studente incontra durante il percorso verso la penisola di Izu una piccola compagnia di artisti girovaghi, categoria all’epoca non proprio ben vista.
Ma lui rimane affascinato. Si accompagna a loro, dorme e mangia con loro e rimane incantato dalla giovane danzatrice. Non accade nulla e nulla assume una forma. Tant’è vero che quando vede la danzatrice uscire nuda dal bagno, lo studente è quasi sollevato dalla sorpresa di scoprire che è una ragazzina, quasi una bambina.
Nella bellezza del paesaggio le bianche lunghe gambe infantili della danzatrice sono anch’esse un lampo di bellezza che va semplicemente colto nell’attimo in cui il caso ce lo regala.
Non è un caso che il Giappone festeggi la fioritura dei ciliegi, che ci sia chi fa la previsione del giorno giusto e paghi col disonore una previsione sbagliata.
Al racconto seguono due brani. Uno un saggio di Kawabata che riguarda giustappunto la bellezza, l’altro di Amitrano sul racconto, sul premio Nobel etc.
11.01.2018
Conosco troppo poco la narrativa giapponese per poter capire il ruolo innovativo di Kawabata e conosco abbastanza bene la natura americana per non prendere per buona la dichiarazione di Donald Keene sul fatto che gli americani capivano Kawabata più del giapponesi.
Ma a Keene possiamo perdonare l’entusiasmo vista la sua carriera decennale di esperto iamatologo.
Il racconto è breve e, come già presente nei suoi temi, riguarda un viaggio. Un giovane studente incontra durante il percorso verso la penisola di Izu una piccola compagnia di artisti girovaghi, categoria all’epoca non proprio ben vista.
Ma lui rimane affascinato. Si accompagna a loro, dorme e mangia con loro e rimane incantato dalla giovane danzatrice. Non accade nulla e nulla assume una forma. Tant’è vero che quando vede la danzatrice uscire nuda dal bagno, lo studente è quasi sollevato dalla sorpresa di scoprire che è una ragazzina, quasi una bambina.
Nella bellezza del paesaggio le bianche lunghe gambe infantili della danzatrice sono anch’esse un lampo di bellezza che va semplicemente colto nell’attimo in cui il caso ce lo regala.
Non è un caso che il Giappone festeggi la fioritura dei ciliegi, che ci sia chi fa la previsione del giorno giusto e paghi col disonore una previsione sbagliata.
Al racconto seguono due brani. Uno un saggio di Kawabata che riguarda giustappunto la bellezza, l’altro di Amitrano sul racconto, sul premio Nobel etc.
11.01.2018
November 22, 2021
Yasunari Kawabata's writing is like poetry, and since I do not understand poetry, I did not enjoy this a lot. There are 4 short stories that are autobiographical in nature and though they do not follow the regular structure, they kept me engaged and have given me a lot to think about - especially about memory, loneliness and death. There are more than 15 other short stories known as "palm-stories" which are just a couple of pages each, and I was befuddled with most of them. A few of them did capture an emotion or a moment extremely well, but I feel I need more exposure to modernism and Japanese folklore before I can enjoy the rest. Hopefully, someday I will. I did enjoy the titular story - The Dancing Girl of Izu.
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