It’s not so much that I want to die as that I’m tired of living.
It is unfortunate for the gods that, unlike us, they cannot commit suicide.
Yes — or rather, it’s not so much that I want to die as that I’m tired of living.
…O-suzu left whatever work she was doing at her sewing machine and dragged Takeo back to O-yoshi and her son.How dare you behave so selfishly! Now tell O-yoshi-san that you are sorry. Get down on the mats and make a proper bow!
Isn’t there someone kind enough to come strangle me in my sleep?
As you can imagine, those who had fallen this far had been so worn down by their tortures in the seven other hells that they no longer had the strength to cry out.
Great robber though he was, Kandata could only trash about like a dying frog as he choked on the blood of the pond.
I could have sworn that the man’s eyes were no longer watching his daughter dying in agony, that instead the gorgeous colors of flames and the sight of a woman suffering in them were giving him joy beyond measure.
The pale whiteness of her upturned face as she choked on the smoke; the tangled length of her hair as she tried to shake the flames from it; the beauty of her cherry-blossom robe as it burst into flame: it was all so cruel, so terrible!
Still more horrible was the color of the flames that licked the latticed cabin vents before shooting skyward, as though – might I say? – the sun itself had crashed to earth, spewing its heavenly fire in all directions.
I have no conscience at all — least of all an artistic conscience. All I have is nerves.