From THE THREE CORNERED WORLD, by Natsume Soseki Page 19 After thirty years of life in this world of ours, I have had more than enough of the suffering, anger, belligerence and sadness which are ever present; and I find it very trying to be subjected to repeated doses of stimulants designed to evoke these emotions when I go to the theatre, or read a novel. I want a poem which abandons the commonplace, and lifts me, at least for a short time, above the dust and grime of the workaday world; not one which rouses my passions to an even greater pitch than usual. Page 48 Putting it as a formula, I suppose you could say that an artist is a person who lives in the triangle which remains after the angle which we may call common sense has been removed from this four-cornered world. Because of this lack of common sense, the artist is not afraid to approach those areas, both in the natural and in the man-made world, from which the average person shrinks back, and in consequence is able to find the most exquisite pearls of beauty. Page 106 I have no complaint to make against classical Greek sculpture, but whevever I see one of those nude paintings which seem to have become the lifeblood of contemporary French art, I feel that somehow it is lacking in refinement, for it is obvious that the artist has gone to extremes to express the beauty of uncovered flesh. I cannot say that such paintings have ever pertubed me unduly, but I have, from time to time, been annoyed at my inability to define why I thought them indelicate. I know that in covering the human body one is concealing a thing of beauty, and yet to leave it uncovered makes it common. The modern painters of nudes are not even content with reproducing as it is the body they have deprived of attire, but thrust it to a nauseating extent on to the clothed world round about. They forgot that it is a natural thing for man to wear clothes, and attempt to give nudity all the rights. Instead of leaving well alone, they try with all their might to get the nakedness to scream out to you from the canvas. When art is carried to such lengths is debases itself by coercing people who look at it. If you struggle to make a thing of perfect beauty appear more beautiful you will only succeed in detracting from it. This idea is expressed, with regard to everyday life, in the proverb: 'From Perfection there is only one road-- down.' Page 146 The world is full of the most terrible people who are importunate, coarse, niggling and, to crown it all, brazen. Indeed, it is incomprehensible why some of them ever showed their faces on the earth in the first place. They assume airs of graces, but in reality there is nothing great about them at all. Because of their expansive appearance, the fickle world frequently casts its spotlight on them, and they labor under the misapprehension that this is fame. They will set a detective on your tail for five or ten years to reckon up how many times you break wind, and they think this is Life. Moreover, they will, on occasion, leap out in front of you and impart such unsolicited information as, 'You farted x number of times'. When they tell you this face to face, you may listen and make note of it for future reference. But the refrain, 'You farted x number of times', often comes from behind. If you say they are a nuisance, they do it all the more. If you tell them to stop it, they redouble their efforts. Even if you say that you know, they will still repeat, 'You farted x number of times'. This is their idea of how to live with their fellow creatures. They are, of course, free to formulate their own principles for living, providing that these do not include telling people, 'You farted, you farted'. It is only common decency to desist from any course of action which is going to inconvenience others. If, however, they cannot find such a course of action, then I shall have no choice but to adopt farting as my policy; and if that should hever happen, it will be a sorry day for Japan. Page 176 As the thread of the old man's words spun out, it became thinner and weaker, until at last, no thicker than gossamer, it parted to spill the crystal beads of sorrow.