The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

number of ways.
The surface of the pond—rather the swamp—was
screened off by leaves and branches, but here and
there it caught the rays of the western sun. The
inappropriate light set off the accumulation of leaves
on the shallow bottom like an unpleasant dream.
“Look at it. If you were to turn a light on them, our
hearts would be just as shallow and dirty.”
“Not mine. Mine is deep and clean. I’d like to show
it to you.”
“How can you say you’re an exception? Give me
your proof.”
An exception myself, I was irritated at another’s
claim to be an exception. I did not see in any case
how mediocrity could claim to be an exception.
“I just know it, that’s all.”
I could sense well enough the inferno into which she
had fallen. She had not once felt the need to prove
herself. Soaked in a bliss that dripped sadness, she
had dissolved everything from the girlish gewgaws to
love itself in the obscure liquid. She was up to the
neck in the bathtub of herself. It was a dangerous
position, but she was not prepared to ask for help,
and indeed refused the helping hand. To wound her, it
was necessary to drag her out of it. Otherwise the
blade would fall short, deflected by the liquid.