The Setting Sun

"I like roses best. But they bloom in all four seasons. I wonder if people who like roses best have to die four times over again."

Just because a person has a title doesn't make him an aristocrat. Some people are great aristocrats who have no other title than the one that nature has bestowed on them, and others like us, who have nothing but titles, are closer to being pariahs than aristocrats.

When I pretended to be precocious, people started the rumor that I was precocious. When I acted like an idler, rumor had it 1 was an idler. When I pretended I couldn't write a novel, people said I couldn't write. When I acted like a liar, they called me a liar. When I acted like a rich man, they started the rumor I was rich. When I feigned indifference, they classed me as the indifferent type. But when I inadvertently groaned because I was really in pain, they started the rumor that I was faking suffering.

I have never once felt any of my women friends was beautiful or lovable except her.

he is the kind of man who does not understand what he himself has painted, one cannot expect him to appreciate other people's work.

I ran riot and threw myself into wild diversions out of the simple desire to escape from my own shadow — being an aristocrat.

1 wonder if we are to blame, after all. Is it our fault that we were born aristocrats? Merely because we were born in such a family, we are condemned to spend our whole lives in humiliation, apologies, and abasement, like so many Jews.

I should have died sooner. But there was one thing: Mama's love. When I thought of that I couldn't die.

When my father died his expression had suddenly changed, but Mother's was exactly the same as in life.

Now that it was clear that Mother would soon die, my romanticism and sentimentality were gradually vanishing, and I felt as though I were turning into a calculating, unprincipled creature.

We all remain children, no matter how much time goes by. We don't understand anything."

That distorted hand did not belong to my mother. It was some other woman's hand. Mother's hand is smaller and more delicate. A hand I know well. A gentle hand. A lovable hand. Had that hand, I wondered, vanished forever? The left hand as yet was not so swollen. But it was too painful for me to go on looking at Mother.