Kawabata is the king of quiet, understated prose of shimmering beauty. He writes about the intricacies of the love and interpersonal relationships with a limpid clarity which is rare. Rare in the sense that he's able to distil the conflicting and turbulent emotions which linger beneath the surface in such a concise manner. The contrast between the smouldering, ruddy-cheeked passion of Shimamura and Komako's love affair and the cosmic, all-encompassing power of the snow is difficult to properly articulate. However, it has an undeniable effect, conjuring the vitality of youth, the impermanence of love, and something bigger and more essential which is difficult to put one's finger on. 

I think reading this in Japan made it far more resonant and there's a purity, a sort of undeniable poetic power, to the way Kawabata writes. I'd long preferred Mishima and Sōseki, but I fully intend to dive deeply into Kawabata's body of work in future.