The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

Viennese psychoanalysis; but he could not accept the
principle that one’s wish was to betray oneself. No: it
was more natural to believe that someone outside
was keeping a close watch, and importuning.
Awake he had volition and, whether he wished it or
not, was living in history; but somewhere back in the
darkness was someone, historical perhaps,
nonhistorical perhaps, setting him against dreams.
The mists would seem to have cleared and the
moon to have come out. The window, a little too tall for
the curtain, was shining at the bottom a faint silverblue,
like a shadow of the giant reclining peninsula
beyond the waters. So India would look, thought
Honda, to a ship approaching from the Indian Ocean
at night. He went back to sleep.