The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

malice, death was near, to make amends. He was at
an age when youth was a plaything, humanity a
collection of clay dolls, an age when, putting
ceremony to his own uses, he could turn honesty and
sincerity into the play of the evening sky.
When others were as nothing, surrender to such
temptations became a kind of destiny.
Late one evening Honda called Tōru into his study.
Mildewed by the summer rains, it was the Englishstyle
study he had inherited from his father. Honda
disliked air-conditioning, and there was a faint glow of
sweat on Tōru’s white chest. It seemed to Honda that
a doomed white hydrangea was in bloom before him.
“It will soon be summer vacation.”
“But exams come first.” Tōru bit at the chocolate
mint Honda had offered.
“You eat like a squirrel.” Honda smiled.
“Oh?” Tōru too smiled, the smile of one whom it is
not possible to injure.
Looking at the pale face, Honda thought that this
summer the sun must burn it to a crisp. It was a face
that did not seem in danger of pimples. With a
studied casualness, he opened a drawer and laid a
photograph on the table before Tōru.
Tōru was rather splendid. Honda missed no detail.
Tōru first examined it with the solemn attention of a