Trying to keep my writing flow on Tanizaki and it is hard.  To me, Tanizaki is a good writer; his sensuous words really get me, capture my mood, and strangle my heart bit by bit, silently, fatally.  As I follow his mind, a “mysterious Orient,” emerges from Tanizaki’s imagination, who lives, walks through darkness, and meets with a woman covered with a kimono except her white hands and the nape of her neck, like the shimmering, reflective light picked up by the golden foil of the fusuma.

Trying to play with the theory, text and mind is hard.  I am a detective, overwhelmed by evidences too secondary to form an argument, stimuli too much to get a clear vision, and clues too discursive to follow.  Good detectives solve puzzles because they have a totality of the story in their mind, just need time to put everything together.  But I, on the other hand, am trapped in his evil fabrication of aesthetics and lost myself in the obsession with his wording in shadows. 

When I am stuck in writing, the world becomes a kaleidoscope: distorted, fantasized, and melancholic.  I live in the rupture between reality and fantasy.  Rationality is a delusion and the planet is the cream floating on the coffee with the spread of cinnamon.