Sakutarō Hagiwara Quotes

Ah in this landscape that trails shadows
my soul clutches an itchy terror
like a ship that has come from a harbor it has come
crossing the islands with wraiths in the distance
it's neither wind nor rain
all of it a dark fear clinging to the sufferings of love and lust
and at the dull flute-sound that a snake charmer makes
my crumbling shadow wept lonely.

Now I sit in my room alone
and gaze at the shadow of my fading soul
its sighs are lonesome
and as feeble as a fly that stays
in the spring evening sun that fades quietly
my life roams feebly
my life staying at the windowglass
heard helpless children's sobbing schoolsongs

Poetry is neither a mystery nor a symbol nor a demon. Poetry is nothing more than a lonely consolation for the owner of a sickly soul and a man of solitude.

Of the lukewarm unpleasantness of the sensation of a
man at such a moment a disastrous crime is born. A
heart afraid of crime is the forerunner of a heart that
gives birth to a crime.

A person, individually, is always terribly lonely forever and ever.

Father is eternally tragic.

Sometimes I escape from everyone and become solitary.
And my heart loving everyone becomes tearful.
I always like, while walking on a deserted lonely beach,
to think of the crowds in the distant city.

In one room of some madhouse there was a man who sat on a chair all day, doing nothing but stare at the hands of a clock every day. Here was probably the most bored human being in the world, who didn't know what to do with "time," or so I thought. But the reality was the opposite, as the director of the house explained to me. This unhappy person thinks life is constant activity. He doesn't want to waste a single moment of his life, and lest he squander valuable time, he's staring at the clock like that, every day. Say something to him, and he'll angrily bark, "Shut up! Now another second of my valuable time passes. Time is life! Time is life!"

I have no more hope no more honor no more future.
And irretrievable remorse alone
scurried away like a field mouse.

Why can't one love with one's body those whom one loves with one's heart?

The human lodges collapsed on the ground
are asleep like huge spiders.
In lonely pitch-dark nature
animals tremble with fear
and threatened by some Dream Demon
are howling sadly pale.

The air of the countryside is gloomy and oppressive,
the touch of the countryside is gritty and sickening,
when I sometimes think of the countryside,
I'm tormented by the smell of animal skin coarse in
texture.I fear the countryside,
the countryside is a pale fever dream.

If those who have already committed suicide and are dead were to become alive once again and speak, they would probably talk of the actuality of this. They are all regretting ghosts in their graves. I think about this a hundred times and am still terrified, and I shudder even in my dreams.

I have made poetry for a long time but I have less and less confidence in it. Someone like me is no more than a miserable blue cat's nightmare.

[Poetry] is the voice of a blue heron calling in the marshes of life, the sound of a wind darkly whispering over the reeds on a moonlit night.