Geisha Of Gion Quotes

I fell into a sound sleep and dreamed that I was at a banquet back in Gion, talking with an elderly man who was explaining to me that his wife, whom he'd cared for deeply, wasn't really dead because the pleasure of their time together lived on inside him.

So we support the dance but it does not support us.

Estava a viver apenas metade em Gion, a outra metade de mim vivia nos meus sonhos de regressar a casa. É por isso que os sonhos podem ser coisas tão perigosas; continuam acesos mesmo sem chama, e às vezes consomem-nos completamente

I didn’t feel any guilt over my decision to close the okiya. I had given the Gion Kobu everything I had and it was no longer giving me what I needed. I had no regrets.

She was thanking everybody because she believed, as do many Japanese, that it takes a village to raise a child. I was the product of a group effort rather than any given individual. And the group was Gion Kobu.

Her death was a defining moment in my life. It felt like the brightest light in Gion Kobu had gone dark. Sadly, she was the last master of the musical tradition in which she had been trained. The form died with her.

I am afraid that the traditional culture of Gion Kobu and the other karyukai will cease to exist in the near future. The thought that little will remain of the glorious tradition beyond its external forms fills me with sorrow.

En Gion Kobu no nos referimos a nosotras mismas como geishas (que significa "artistas"), sino que usamos un término más específico: geiko o "mujer del arte". Una clase de geiko, famosa en el mundo entero como símbolo de Kioto, es la joven bailarina conocida como maiko o "mujer de la danza".

fiction has served to propagate the notion that courtesans ply their trade in the area and that geiko spend the night with their customers. Once an idea like this is planted in the general culture it takes on a life of its own. I understand that there are some scholars of Japan in foreign countries who also believe these misconceptions to be true. But

We lead our lives like water flowing down a hill, going more or less in one direction until we splash into something that forces us to find a new course. If I'd never met Mr. Tanaka, my life would have been a simple stream flowing from our tipsy house to the ocean. Mr. Tanaka changed all that when he sent me out into the world. But being sent out into the world isn't necessarily the same as leaving your home behind you. I'd been in Gion more than six months by the time I received Mr. Tanaka's letter; and yet during that time, I'd never for a moment given up the belief that I would one day find a better life elsewhere, with at least part of the family I'd always known. I was living only half in Gion; the other half of me lived in my dreams of going home. This is why dreams can be such dangerous things: they smolder on like a fire does, and sometimes consume us completely.

I was thoroughly fed up with the system. I had followed the rules for all these years, but there was no way I could stay in the system and do what I wanted to do. The whole reason why the organization of Gion Kobu had been systematized in the first place was to ensure the dignity and financial independence of the women who worked there. Yet the strictures of the Inoue School kept us subservient to its authority. There was no room for any sort of autonomy.

We dine in Gion---the geisha district, Kyoto's heart and spiritual center. There are rickety teahouses, master sword makers, and women dressed in kimonos. The restaurant is by invitation only and seats seven, but the chef prefers to keep the guest count under five. His name is Komura, and like the bamboo farmer Shirasu and his son, his two daughters assist him. The sisters light candles in bronze holders and place them around the room. The restaurant is a converted home, the walls a deep ebony stained from years of smoke from the open hearth----it's called kurobikari, black luster. It's a hidden gem nestled between a pachinko parlor and an antiques shop. The table we kneel at is made of thick wood, its surface weathered, worn, and polished, honed by years of hands and plates and cups of tea.

Aku tertidur nyenyak dan bermimpi aku sedang berada dalam bangket di Gion, bicara dengan seorang laki-laki tua yang menjelaskan kepadaku bahwa istrinya, yang dicintainya dengan amat mendalam, tidak benar-benar meninggal karena kenikmatan saat mereka bersama-sama masih hidup di dalam dirinya.

Stab the body and it heals, but injure the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime’ (here) Mineko Iwasaki, Geisha of Gion: The True Story of Japan’s Foremost Geisha, published by arrangement with Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 1st Floor, 222 Gray’s Inn Road, London, WC1X 8HB. A CBS Company.

Вот почему приписывать словосочетанию «дом гейш» негативный смысл очень смешно. Мужчинам почти не позволялось входить в этот бастион женской общины или забавляться с его обитательницами после того, как те вернутся домой.

Я не знала, что такое деньги. Годами я верила в то, что, если тебе что-то нужно, надо только попросить.

Я обещаю, если ты когда-нибудь захочешь вернуться домой, дай мне знать, и я приеду за тобой. В любое время. Днем или ночью. Только позови. – Я умерла, – посмотрев на него, ответила я. Родители

«Мы продаем искусство, а не тело».

Every step I have taken in my life since I was a child in Gion, I have taken in the hope of bringing myself closer to you.

You might say Gion was like a pond high up on a mountaintop, fed by streams of rich springwater. More water poured in at some spots than others, but it raised the pond as a whole.

was living only half in Gion; the other half of me lived in my dreams of going home. This is why dreams can be such dangerous things: they smolder on like a fire does, and sometimes consume us completely.

All I'd seen day after day was Gion, so much so that I'd come to think Gion was everything, and that the only thing that mattered in the world was Gion. But now that I was outside Kyoto, I could see that for most people life had nothing to do with Gion at all; and of course, I couldn't stop from thinking of the other life I'd once led. 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.