Memoirs of a Geisha

by Arthur Golden

This is why dreams can be such dangerous things: they smolder on like a fire does, and sometimes consume us completely.

Grief is a most peculiar thing; we’re so helpless in the face of it. It’s like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.

This was what we Japanese called the “onion life”—peeling away a layer at a time and crying all the while.