The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

is something that the winter sky has caused to fall
gently upon me, and it has nothing to do with my own
basic nature. But in the instant of the avalanche, the
softness of the snow and the hardness of the cliff
change places. The agent of the disaster is the snow
and not the self. It is the softness and not the
hardness.
For a very long time, indeed since the beginning of
natural history, my sort of heart, a heart of
irresponsible hardness, has been ready. Most
commonly, in the form of a stone. In the purest form of
all, a diamond.
But the too-bright sun of winter penetrates even into
the transparency of my heart. It is at such times that I
see myself with wings that have no obstacles, and I
see too that I shall do nothing at all with my life.
I shall probably achieve freedom, but freedom akin
to death. None of the things I have dreamed of will
come to me in this world.
Like the winter view from the signal station on
Suruga Bay, when I could see even the reflections
from the automobiles on the Izu Peninsula, I can see
with these eyes every detail of the future.
I will no doubt have friends. The clever ones will
betray me, and only the stupid ones will remain. It is
strange that betrayal should come to a person like