The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

have looked for a reason. I have found the most
plausible one. It is the love born in me.
I almost burst out laughing. For I had become
aware of the significance of lovelessness as a selfevident
premise. It is in the freedom to love
indiscriminately at any time. Like a truck driver
napping in the summer shade, certain that the
moment he awakens he can drive off again. If
freedom is not the essence of love but its enemy, then
I have friend and enemy in hand at once.
My sulkiness seems to have been convincing. That
is most natural, for it is the form taken by love that is
free, asking while denying.
Momoko promptly lost her appetite. She looked at
me with a worried face, as she might look at a pet
bird. She had the vulgar notion that happiness is to be
apportioned to all, like a big loaf of French bread. She
did not understand the mathematical principle that
happiness for one must be unhappiness for another.
“Has something happened?” It was an
inappropriate question coming from those elegant
lips, on that face shaded over with quiet tragedy.
I laughed vacantly and did not answer.
It was the only time she asked the question. She
was soon lost in her own talk. It was the part of the
faithful listener to be silent.