The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
Writing is a way of preserving memory.
译文:明亮的月光掠过枝头,惊飞了树上的喜鹊;清凉的夜风中,半夜里蝉儿发出阵阵鸣叫。在稻花的香气里,人们谈论着丰收的年景,耳边传来一片青蛙的叫声。
You can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world, and there's still going to be somebody who hates peaches.