In this mortal frame of mine which is made of a hundred bones and nine orifices there is something, and this something is called a wind-swept spirit for lack of a better name, for it is much like a thin drapery that is torn and swept away at the slightest stir of the wind. This something in me . . . has never found peace with itself, always wavering between doubts of one kind and another. [ . . . ] The fact is, it knows no other art than the art of writing poetry, and therefore, it hangs on to it more or less blindly. --Matsuo Basho
Posted on: Mon, 21 Apr 2014 01:34:22 +0000