The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

the approach of death, automobiles too gather at their
own graveyards. In any event, the brightness, the
openness, the want of shame seemed to him quite
automobilish.
From Uji the hills were for the first time green. A billboard
proclaimed “Delicious Chilled Sweets.”
Bamboo leaves arched over the road.
They crossed Moon Bridge in Uji and were on the
old Nara Highway. They passed Fushimi and
Yamashiro. A sign informed them that Nara was
twenty miles distant. Time went by. At each marker
Honda thought of the expression “milestones on the
way to the grave.” It seemed to him inconceivable that
he would return over the same road. Sign followed
sign, marking clearly the road he must travel.
Nineteen miles to Nara. A mile nearer the grave. He
opened a window, stealing an inch from airconditioning,
and the cicadas were ringing in his ears,
as if the whole world were sounding in solitude under
the summer sun.
Another filling station. More Coca-Cola.
The beautiful green embankment of the River Kizu
stretched far away to the right. It was deserted, roily
clouds defining its handsome groves. Blue patches
glowed in the sky.
And what, thought Honda vacantly, might it be? The