The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

west of the Court of Emptiness.
With the Buddhas disposed geometrically on the
golden mandala transferred to the dark groves of the
symmetrical plaza, the expanse of gravel and the
emptiness of the sidewalk were suddenly filled,
merciful faces were everywhere, dizzying in the full
light of day. The more than two hundred holy faces,
and more than two hundred of the Diamond Mandala
as well, were shining in the groves, and the ground
was ablaze with light.
The vision faded as he walked off. The night was
filled with the singing of insects, cicada voices
stitched the shadows like needles.
The familiar path was still there through the groves,
to the right of the art gallery. He remembered with
longing that the smell of the grass and of the night
trees had been an indispensable part of desire.
He felt the return of a sharp sense of pleasure, as if
he were crossing a tideland, at his feet the workings
of fish and shellfish and starfish and crustaceans and
seahorses, as at night on a coral reef, the water
lapping warm against the soles of his feet, in danger
of being cut at each step by the pointed rocks.
Pleasure dashed ahead, the body was unable to
follow. Signs, indications, were everywhere. As his
eyes grew accustomed to the dark he saw white