The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

14
OFF DUTY on an evening in late August, Tōru
had finished his dinner and bath. He went out to take
the cool of the south wind under the blue awning of the
veranda, still warm from the heat of the day. There
were doors all along the shabby veranda, which he
reached by iron stairs.
Immediately to the south was a lumber yard more
than a hundred yards square, its huge cross-section
dark under lights. The lumber sometimes seemed to
Tōru like a great silent beast.
There was a crematory in the grove beyond. Tōru
would like to have seen a flame that could show itself
in the smoke from such an enormous chimney. He
never had.
The summit of the dark mountain to the south was
Nihondaira. He could see the streams of automobile
lights on the road leading up to it. There were clusters
of hotel lights, and the red lights of television towers.
Tōru had not been to the hotels. He knew nothing of
the affluent life. He did know that wealth and virtue
were incompatible, but he had no interest in making
the world virtuous. Revolution could be left to others.