And now for a little beauty, which is plucked like a fruit from one of the many pages that make up what is often claimed to be the first novel, The Tale of Genji, in all of the world that (barely at first but more so later) made it into the recorded history of the only animal in the universe known to this animal, the human, that can store its language, its memories, its ideas, debts, dreams externally, inorganically, outside of its body as marks that to the poetically minded appear as the dessicated breath of this being, this exception to the living rule that can be no more or less than the measure of all that is to it on this side of nothing:

…[I]t seemed as though the waves were at Genji’s door. Night after night he lay listening to that melancholy sound and wondering whether in all the world there could be any place where the sadness of autumn was more overwhelming. The few attendants who shared the house with him had all gone to rest. Only Genji lay awake, propped high on his pillow, listening to the storm-winds which burst upon the house from every side. Louder and louder came the noise of the waves, till it seemed to him they must have mounted the fore-shore and be surging round the very bed on which he lay.