Influential Japanese novelist Yasunari Kawabata has constructed an .. La danzarina de Izu es una buena opción para aproximarse al universo de Kawabata. de viaje por la península de Izu y una joven percusionista, una bailarina para él. Buy La bailarina de Izu/The Izu Dancer by Yasunari Kawabata, Maria Martoccia from Amazon’s Fiction Books Store. Everyday low prices on a huge range of new . Emecé lingua franca. Ni cuentos ni testimonios personales, las historias del este libro constituyen una autobiografía velada de los atribulados años de juventud.

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Goodreads helps you keep track of books you want to read. Want to Read saving…. Want to Read Currently Reading Read. Refresh and try again. Open Preview See a Problem? Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. Influential Japanese novelist Yasunari Kawabata has constructed an autobiography through his fiction with this new collection of stories that parallel major events and themes in his life.

In the lyrical prose that is his signature, these 23 tales reflect Kawabata’s keen perception, deceptive simplicity, and the deep melancholy that characterizes much of his work. Paperbackpages. Published August 29th by Counterpoint first published March kswabata To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. Lists with This Book. Nov 01, Florencia rated it really liked it Shelves: Chastity Under the Roof I wonder what to say about this one long sigh moving on The Moon thoughts bailarinna heavy that dig his clogs into the snow Enemy a woman sees a line of enemies inside her screen A Woman where the gourds lie, a yasuari sword pierced a tombstone to purify itself Frightening Love do the heavens punish too much love?

Bailadina Third-Class Waiting Room Tokyo Station has the feeling she’s not bailaina The Watch a lawyer meant to talk can’t find the words in his avalanche of thoughts We mustn’t condemn the vanity of these two.

Vanity happened to give this man, who had groveled in fear of women, a little courage for love.

History open your eyes now under the fallen oak leaves lie real intentions Birthplace financial transactions exhaust me yet they brought the boy back to his land Burning the Pine Boughs the sounds of fear cover the night of the first sparrow A Yasunati in the Mother Tongue the mind remembers as it says goodbye ‘Perhaps Kayoko is something d a mother tongue to me.

One can only hope Bilarina all 17 comments. This is a collection of short stories by Kawabata. The title of the book comes from yasunqri first story called “The Dancing Girl of Izu” In general all of the stories had a strange feeling, very distant from me and yet very human.

I enjoyed all of them quite a lot. I don’t think this is for everyone though. Aug 18, Praj rated it liked it Shelves: Recent memories are the first to succumb. Death works its way backward until it reaches memory’s earliest beginnings. Then memory flares up for an instant, just like a flame about to go out. That is the “prayer in the mother tongue. Forgiveness, they say, is the only medicine that vailarina an infected heart.


A prayer; a hope for betterment flickers as the mind enters into an empty abyss. As a child, I was terrified of funerals. But, it all changed on the day my grandfather died. The elders thought as I was too young to see the dead izzu so I was sent to the neighboring apartment. Not a single tear was dropped when I came back to an empty room and even today funerals never make me grieve. At funerals, I sit by the dead and stare blankly at the soundless face, searching for a fragmentary goodbye of my grandfather as my anguish never got the merited privilege of closure.

Does death complete the emptiness that life always dwells in?

The Dancing Girl of Izu and Other Stories

Can death really erase all the mistakes and sins of mortality? When does a man rob the virginity of his life and then later, why does he regret it as a reckless act? Did my grandfather recollect his first spoken words in his mother tongue? The virginal call to his mother. Will I remember my first words on my deathbed? The choreographed beats of a drum lingered from a nearby tea house.

The boy despised the mere smell of the oil ; rapeseed to be precise. The lingering sweet odor brought back the dead. Unaware of his quandary, it would not be long till he smelled the rapeseed oil once again.

Will he then offer a hundred lights at the altar to honor his parents?

Ask the boy for whom death permeates through the viscous oil. A middle-school teen who had come to honor the dead sat besides me. He did not felt the need to put on a solemn mask like several others at the funeral.

Just like me, he could not grieve the death. The youth was neither a temple priest nor a shaman. The fellow was in his 20s who unfortunately had seen more funerals than celebratory sacraments of life; his kimono smelled like a grave. Amid the chants, to the horror of the mourners, the teen slammed a book in my palm.

Words were jammed up in my throat. How could he do such a disgraceful thing in the middle of the funeral? Doesn’t he respect the dead? Tears flooded his aching eyes and I knew it right then, I had to read his penned diary of the sixteenth year.

I could not bring myself to give him an unenthusiastic answer; I had to revere his words the way his belief resided in my approval. Maybe, it was fate giving me a second chance to pronounce my own unsaid goodbyes. Maybe, his word would lessen the weight of my onerous memories. Nevertheless, will the teen himself be able to unload his baggage? Similar to his grandfather, would his heart stand strong for seventy-five years while the wounds of failure bled?

Ask him on his 27th birthday. The pristine images of the flowing white fabrics floated the virginal essence of life that conquered the departed soul. The soft waves of the sea murmured the melancholy of breathing memories. The urn to be used for gathering the ashes rested peacefully on the wooden mantle that once was a proud owner of an authentic Japanese watch symbolizing the courage of love. Love is certainly a funny thing.


It dawns from sheer vanity of beauty and crumbles in its opulent absurdities. Love that dwells on fringes of insanity; love that consumes the very essence of its purity to the advent of insanity. Is love a bastard child of lunacy or an orphan seeking a home in fostered hearts?

Ask the man who patiently waited for the bitter blade to touch his warm neck. Amid the ritualistic chants, the funeral proceeded onto the pompous street that prided in its mountains of silver and copper coins. The coins fell swiftly as pearls from a necklace.

By honoring the dead, the honey road became an illusionary plaque of a melancholic heaven. Is then, paradise a distant path or is it found in the boots of the beggar who tonight will feast on a scrumptious sea bream and sake; the red comb a gift on her wedding night.

The outlandish screeching of the cicadas interrupted the funeral procession as the villagers glanced at each other. The cries of the cicadas from the lw in the park metamorphosed into the merciful whimpers of a woman dwelling in the realms of her chastity under the roof. Once again the villagers glanced at each other. The rumor of a woman who lost her virginity three times preceded the procession.

The woman who stood behind me in a white kimono grinned as only she knew the absolute truth. She had lost her virginity at the very sight of a wrinkle resting near her eye and the sting of her sagging breast bled for the first time.

Not a single memory, just a flimsy shadow. Is old age the inevitable enemy of beauty that life prides upon? Do the baggage of our memories become detrimental as we head towards the dusk of our lives? Ask the woman who lost her virginity for the fourth time. Vile gossip is an illusion stemming from a nascent self-hatred. Like a chimerical ballet liberated from human errors, fantasy takes refuge into the arms of realism.

The Dancing Girl of Izu and Other Stories by Yasunari Kawabata

Isn’t it true that ,awabata times we choose to dwell in our rose-tinted prejudices? Ask the man standing in the bailairna of a pilgrim in the third-class waiting room at the station.

The voice of the drums seems to get closer. Suddenly, a wild uproar halted the funeral procession. It’s a small road just wide enough for automobiles to pass. If you were so shocked when you first realized what kind of intentions that road had, you had better open your eyes while you can and think about the intentions that lie behind that highway.

Somewhere, the crickets zealously chirped in a jar. The persistent odor that oozed from burning the pine boughs brought happiness to a gloomy heart. Did the ashes of the burned pine boughs cleanse the heart from the burdensome memories?

Did the heart become a pictograph of bbailarina, once again?