the man who later in his life is to be executed is constantly drawing an image in his mind of the execution site, and is becoming familiar with that image.

could this have been love? grant it to be one form of love, for even though at first glance it seemed to retain its pristine form forever, simply repeating that form over and over again, it too had its own unique sort of debasement and decay.

and did the heavens abet the plan to punish me? for not believing in myself or for believing too much; too eager to know where my allegiance lay or vainly assuming that already I knew all; for wanting to fly off, to the unknown or the known; both

dazzled perhaps, by the dizzy incandescence of waxen wings.

father’s face was buried in early summer flowers. there was something gruesome about the utter freshness of those flowers. it was as though they were peering down the bottom of a well. for a dead man’s face falls to an infinite depth beneath the

was not such beauty as his a thing destined for death?

the groups of muscles that have become virtually unnecessary in modern life, though still a vital element of a man’s body, are obviously pointless from a practical point of view, and bulging muscles are as unnecessary as a classical education is to the

he was fully aware that beauty is a thing which must sleep and which, in sleeping, must be protected by knowledge.

what more could I have done when I did not know that to love is both to seek and to be sought? for me love was nothing but a dialogue of little riddles, with no answers given.

at such times I felt as though I was drenched up to my neck in the existence that was myself.

I never seem to be able to decide which memory might be real, which false. perhaps the leather gloves were more in harmony with his coarse features. and yet again, precisely because of his coarse features, perhaps it was the white pair which became him

but here again, the face fails inexplicably to give the impression of belonging to a living human being.

other people must be destroyed. in order that I might truly face the sun, the world itself must be destroyed.

yet how strange a thing is the beauty of music! the brief beauty that the player brings into being transforms a given period of time into continuance; it is certain to never be repeated; like the existence of dayflies and other such short lived

my long — felt attraction toward the loneliness that filled Omi's life —— loneliness born of the fact that life had enslaved him —— had first made me want to possess the same quality; and now that I was experiencing, in this feeling of emptiness

beauty is a terrible and awful thing!

and did the heavens abet the plan to punish me? for not believing in myself or for believing too much; too eager to know where my allegiance lay or vainly assuming that already I knew all; for wanting to fly off, to the unknown or the known; both

from that time on, I was in love with him.

since the moment for the curtain to fall was not so far distant, it might have been expected that I would enact with all the more diligence the masquerade I had devised for myself.

every possible nightmare in the world, every possible nightmare in history, has come into being like this.

scenic beauty is hell.

I saw beauty and ethics as the same thing.

my heart had never before been swayed, and at first glance, by such a deep and unexplainable grief, a grief moreover that was no part of my masquerade.

it’s never at such times that we become cruel or bloodthirsty. no, it’s a beautiful spring afternoon like this that makes people suddenly become cruel.

what I wanted was to die among strangers, untroubled, beneath a cloudless sky.

was it devised by the earth, to which I belonged, on account of the fleeting, white — hot intoxication achieved for a moment by waxen wings?

the war had produced a strangely sentimental maturity in us. it arose from our thinking of life as something that would end abruptly in our twenties; we never even considered the possibility of there being anything beyond those few remaining years. life

yet how strange a thing is the beauty of music! the brief beauty that the player brings into being transforms a given period of time into continuance; it is certain to never be repeated; like the existence of dayflies and other such short lived

it is a rather risky matter to discuss a happiness that has no need of words.

so far as feelings were concerned, there was no discrepancy between the very finest feeling in this world, and the very worst; that their effect was the same; that no visible difference existed between murderous intent and feelings of deep compassion.

he was fully aware that beauty is a thing which must sleep and which, in sleeping, must be protected by knowledge.

the fact of not being understood by others had been my sole source of pride since my early youth, and I had not the slightest impulse to express myself in such a way that I might be understood. when I did try to clarify my thoughts and actions, I

the fact of not being understood by others had been my sole source of pride since my early youth, and I had not the slightest impulse to express myself in such a way that I might be understood. when I did try to clarify my thoughts and actions, I

it was suitable that he, whose life had been so incomparably pure a structure, should suffer the pure death of an accident. in that collision, that had lasted no more than a second, there had been a sudden contact and his life merged with death. a

for clearly, it is impossible to touch eternity with one hand and life with the other.

the past does not draw us back to the past. there are certain memories of the past that have strong steel springs and, when we who live in the present touch them, they are suddenly stretched taut and then they propel us into the future.

to see human beings in agony, to see them covered in blood and to hear their death groans, makes people humble. it makes their spirits delicate, bright, peaceful. it’s never at such times that we become cruel or bloodthirsty. no, it’s on a beautiful

I never seem to be able to decide which memory might be real, which false. perhaps the leather gloves were more in harmony with his coarse features. and yet again, precisely because of his coarse features, perhaps it was the white pair which became him

thus in a single phrase, I can define the great illusion concerning “love” in this world. it is the effort to join reality with the apparition.

in all my life my heart had never before been so touched by the sight of beauty in a woman.

the men who indulged in nocturnal thought, it seemed to me, had without exception dry, lusterless skins and sagging stomachs. they sought to wrap up a whole epoch in a capacious night of ideas, and rejected in all its forms the sun that I had seen.

I have noticed that in the photographs of me taken about that time together with my family, the others have serious faces; only mine is invariably contorted into a peculiar smile.

the realistic portion of my mind sensed the artificiality in the eternal protestations with which I persuaded myself that I was in love with her, and it fought back with this spiteful fatigue. there seemed to be some terrible poison in this mental

how dearly indeed I loved my pit, my dusky room, the area of my desk with its piles of books! how I enjoyed introspection, shrouded myself in cogitation; with rapture did I listen for the rustling of frail insects in the thickets of my nerves!

for that proper form of the chrysanthemum has been fashioned in terms of the bee’s desire and its very beauty has blossomed forth in anticipation of that desire. now is the instant when the meaning of the flower’s form is going to shine within life.

dazzled perhaps, by the dizzy incandescence of waxen wings.

to see human beings in agony, to see them covered in blood and to hear their death groans, makes people humble. it makes their spirits delicate, bright, peaceful. it’s never at such times that we become cruel or bloodthirsty. no, it’s on a beautiful

I hope you'll remember my name. in a day or two I'll become famous.

it is no exaggeration to say that the first real problem I faced in my life was that of beauty.

in time this ambition became still stronger and, expanding within me, saw a strange development.