I finished the Snow Country a few days ago, and I think about it every day, trying to make my mind about this short book.
It has a very simple plot: a wealthy art dilettante from Tokyo becomes involved with a geisha from a remote spa resort in the north. He visits the village during several years, but his relationship with the geisha remains unchanged - her passion and his coldness, all on the background of stupendous nature and changing seasons. All the time, while reading the book I could sense a melody of futility and eventual death, of effort made in vain. Even though there seems to be a mindless expenditure of effort in every aspect of life - beauty of a geisha fading in the countryside, a girl pining for her dead lover, or moths dying in autumn - the effort is still made, and the result, or even the process of it, is more beautiful and precious because of its transience.
I would gladly read the Snow Country again. I’m sure it has more secrets and beauty in it than I have already seen.