UTAMARO
I feel I scent, in facing Utamaro's ladies, whether with no soul or myriad souls (certainly ladies, be they courtesans or geishas, who never bartered their own beauty and songs away), the rich-soft passionate odour of rare old roses; when I say I hear the silken-delicate summer breezes winging in the picture, I mean that the Japanese sensuousness (is it the scent or pang of a lilac or thorn?) makes my senses shiver at the last moment when it finally turns to spirituality. It was our Japanese civilisation of soul, at least in olden time under Tokugawa's regime, not to distinguish between sensuousness and spirituality, or to see at once the spiritual in the sensuous; I once wrote down as follows, upon the woman drawn by lines, or, more true to say, by the absence of lines, in snake-like litheness of attitude, I might say more subtle than Rossetti's Lillith, with such eyes only opened to see love:
"Too common to say she is the beauty of line,
However, the line old, spiritualised into odour,
