The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

the position best for the Hondas, father and son. If the
“relationship” between them consisted in using nature
as a mediator between their separate awarenesses,
knowing that evil results from a direct meeting, then
they were using nature as a giant filter to turn brine
into potable water.
Below the prow of the Chung Lien was the lighter
anchorage, like an accumulation of bobbing
driftwood. Marks and signs on the concrete pier
forbidding automobiles suggested the aftermath of a
game of hopscotch. A dirty smoke drifted in from
somewhere, and there was an incessant chugging of
engines.
The paint had flaked from the dark hull of the
Chung Lien. The bright red of the rust-preventive
painted a pattern around the prow like an aerial map
of harbor installations. The rusty stockless anchor
clung to the hawse pipe like a great crab.
“What is the cargo, all done up in neat, long
bundles? Like spindles.” Honda was already
scrutinizing the stevedores at work on the Chung
Lien.
“Boxes of some sort, I’d imagine.”
Satisfied that his son knew no more than he, Honda
turned his attention to the shouts of the stevedores
and labor such as he had not known in his life.