wabisabi

In the quest of the real Japanese spirit.
（Does such a thing even exist?）
Where does the authentic japaneseness lie? Is it confined to the wet boundaries of these islands?
Was it lost in the last battle?
Was it lost in the last ritual?
Does it lie in the everchanging rhythm of the times?
Is it reborn every May, every November?
Finding wabi on downtown nightlights.
Finding sabi on the glittering high-heels of teenage girls.
Identity is just the quality of being identical to something else. Mirrors that mirror the images reflected on them, on and on and on. Opposing two mirrors creates the illusion of a mirror inside a mirror inside a mirror. But there cannot be a real eye that sees that illusion. The eye is always outside that reflection.
Gaze lies always outside the image.
Gaze can only come from outside.
Does a Japanese eye see japaneseness? Identity is always created from the outside. A name. A personality. A nationality. “I am me”, says the sad little human being, while clinging to this illusion as the last resort to avoid madness. “I am you”, says the madman. “I am everyone”, says God.
Mishima is but an excuse.
Is he the prototypical man of action? Is he a man? Is he a woman? Isn’t he fooling all of us when he says he is and is not?
To jump out of the stage is not a manmade wish.

Standing behind Niagara falls: the impulse of jumping onto the roaring waters.
Standing by the train lines: the urge to jump into them a second before the train passes.
Standing by the cliff.
Standing at the verge of one’s own skin.

To jump.
To leave it all behind.
Passage à l’acte is the extreme frontier. It is the last thing that separates intellectual considerations from death.
On this side, words, language, parole.
On that side, silence.

（しかし、ワタシは言葉を選ぶ勇気のない人に過ぎないんだ）