The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

eservations on the surface seem no different from the
unconscious reservations of all other teen-agers.
Whatever my perversity, Momoko does not feel it as
such. So I let my feelings have their way.
Unintentionally, I become sincere and honest. If I really
were, then the ethical contradictions in my being
should be exposed like mud banks at low tide; but the
troublesome ones are the banks not yet exposed. As
the waters recede they pass a point at which my
frustrations are no different from the frustrations of any
other young person, the sadness that furrows my brow
draws a line no different from that on the brow of any
other. It would not do for Momoko to catch me there.
I have been wrong in thinking that women are
tormented by doubts as to whether they are loved. I
have wished to plunge Momoko into doubt, but the
swift little beast has eluded capture. It would do no
good to tell her I do not love her. She would think I was
lying. My only recourse is to bide my time and make
her jealous.
I sometimes ask myself if I was not somehow
changed by the dissipation of my sensibilities in
welcoming all those ships. There had to be some
effect on me. Ships were born of my consciousness
and grew into giants and had names. Only so far were
they my concern. Once in port, they were of a different