“In this mortal frame of mine, which is made of a hundred bones and nine orifices, there is something, and this something is called a windswept spirit, for lack of a better name, for it is much like a thin drapery that is torn and swept away at the slightest stir of the wind. This something in me took to writing poetry years ago, merely to amuse itself at first, but finally making it its lifelong business. It must be admitted, however, that there were times when it sank into such dejection that it was almost ready to drop its pursuit, or again times when it was so puffed up with pride that it exulted in vain victories over others. Indeed, ever since it began to write poetry, it has never found peace with itself, always wavering between doubts of one kind and another.”
- Matsuo BashÅ, Journal of a Travel-Worn Satchel (tr. Nobuyuki Yuasa)
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