The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

and I grow weary of pressing the control button. I must
not believe in my own docility. No one can know what
a sacrifice it is for me to be gentle and docile.
But my life has been only duty. I have been like an
awkward novice sailor. Only in seasickness and
nausea have I escaped from duty. The nausea
corresponded to what the world calls love.
For some reason, Momoko is reluctant to come home
with me. We talk for an hour or so after school at the
Renoir. Sometimes we have our innocent fun in the
park, riding the roller coaster. The Hamanakas do not
worry a great deal about having their daughter come
home late if it is not after dark. Though I sometimes
take her to a movie, of course, I must let them know in
advance that we are going to be later. There is not
much pleasure in these public dates, and so we also
have our assignations, brief ones.
Momoko came to the Renoir again today. She may
seem old-fashioned, but she is just like any other girl
in the unpleasant things she has to say about her
teachers, in gossip about her friends, in talk, all
contemptuously masked with indifference, of the
scandalous behavior of movie stars. I humor her a
little, showing a manly tolerance.
I lack the courage to write further, for my