Sublime

used to wonder if he could hear what the spirits said to him if he was so hard of hearing.

Why have these memories been brought out again, here in Japan—the orange scarf, the garden—like a yard sale of his life? Has he lost his mind, or is everything a reflection? The butter bean, the mugwort, the scarf, the garden; is this not a window but a mirror? Two birds are quarreling in the fountain. Again, as he did as a boy, he can only look on

Design criteria: Disregard for conventional views of beauty An aesthetic pleasure that lies beyond conventional beauty Beauty in the smallest most imperceptible details

One of these was the haiku poet Taneda Santoka.

His hands were large and expressive, and he had moved easily in his chair, as if he felt it a pleasure to inhabit a body of which he’d never been ashamed – he’d smelt not of soap or fragrance but of clean skin. His lips had looked as if they had ashes on them: ‘He needs to drink more water,’ said Thomas tenderly, ‘or he’ll get headaches.’

free and pleasant to wander around. Five minutes walk east of Higashi Honganji is Shosei-en, a large Japanese garden with a pond, some teahouses and plenty of cherry blossom in the spring. Entry is free but a small donation is expected.

It was said by Japan’s most famous poet, Basho, that “a poem that suggests 70–80 percent of its subject may be good, but a poem that only suggests 50–60 percent of the subject will always retain its intrigue.”

He tells me how, when he started out in cartoons, he loaded his pictures with detail, but as he grows older he is more and more inclined to use a clear line, which implies a perfectly distilled drawing, luminous, sharply distinguished colors and a spare linear narrative.