Perhaps the act of writing is necessary when nothing happens.

And again, the dark street. The dark, dark street. The women out shopping for the evening meal of course, and baby carriage and the silver bicycle were already painted out by the darkness; most of the commuters too were already in place in their filing-drawer houses. A half-forsaken chasm of time...

Yet there seemed to be some truth in the law of probability, according to which the chance of success is directly proportionate to the number of repetitions.

But for some reason I have not yet become a fish. – The Box Man, p.36.

People like me who lack something are liable to become spiteful critics.

Things have value Because somebody buys them, Because somebody pays money; If you can find a buyer, Even a lie is worth a thousand yen.

Some people, when they’re called before the police, like nothing better than to spill everything, fact and fiction alike, hoping to create a good impression.

Mankind, which has always been a part of nature, has reached a point where it is too much for nature to accommodate.

Far happier he, who, young and full of pride And radiant with the glory of the sun, Leaves earth before his singing time is done. All wounds of Time the graveyard flowers hide, His beauty lives, as fresh as when he died.

Time cannot be spurred on like a horse.