The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

coolness of its shadows. There was a reason for the
shadows, but Honda doubted that it was in the trees
themselves.
He asked himself and his stick at which shadow he
might rest. The fourth shadow, already invisible from
the automobile, quietly invited him. Coming to it, he
sat, almost collapsed, on a chestnut root.
“In the beginning,” thought Honda, as if of
undisputed reality, “it was decided that I would rest on
this day at this moment in the shade of this tree.”
Sweat and insect songs, forgotten while he was
walking, surged forward as he sat down. He pressed
his forehead against his stick. The pressure of the
silver head drowned out the pain throbbing in his
stomach and back.
The doctor had told him he had tumor of the
pancreas. Smiling, he had said that it was benign.
Smiling, benign. To stretch out hopes on such words
was to trample on the pride of a man who had lived
through eighty-one years. Honda considered refusing
surgery when he returned to Tokyo. If he did, however,
the doctor was certain to bring pressure upon “near
relatives.” He had already fallen into the trap. He had
fallen into one trap when he had been born into this
world, and there ought not to be another trap waiting
at the end of the way. He must laugh at it all, thought