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I have learnt that evil can be beautiful. That hate must be given a long leash. That love can be ugly. This genius of the Japanese mind finds release in the printed word. But then "evil" is too strong a word for what contemporary Japanese authors work with. They don't pen evil, they pen the fallible, the human heart, they write of its innocent horrors... and then they make it sublime.
The artists, behind their glorious masks and meditative looks, hide thin, rickety, malnourished frames. They look happy somehow. This evening has been in the making for months. The artisans will be paid, sheltered and fed for a week. They all seem upbeat at the prospect. Food for dancing. Such short-lived exuberance makes the word bourgeoisie hang in mid air, silently floating on top of your head...