The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

false molars. Honda already had inorganic teeth. He
was already beginning to die.
“I see. It makes no difference.”
All through the day Honda sat still in his room. He
barely touched the food that the “maid” brought. He
knew what she would report to Tōru.
“The old man’s being awful sulky.”
Perhaps the sufferings of the old man did in fact
come to nothing more than sulkiness. Honda could
see in them foolishness beyond defending. It had all
been his own doing and not Tōru’s. There was no
need for surprise at the change in Tōru. Honda had
seen at the first glance the “evil” in the boy.
But at the moment he wanted to measure the depth
of the wound inflicted on his self-respect by what he
had asked for.
Honda disliked air-conditioning and was at an age
when he feared stairs. He had a large twelve-mat
room on the ground floor, looking out over the garden
to the cottage. Built in the medieval shoin style, it was
the oldest and gloomiest room in the house. Honda
ranged four linen cushions in a row. He lay down and
then sat up on his heels. With all the sliding doors
pulled shut, he let the heat accumulate. Sometimes he
would crawl to the table for a drink of water. It was as
warm as in full sunlight.