The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

among leaves like young swallows’ wings. The great
pine tree against which he leaned, the celadon of the
sky above, the clouds like leavings from a broom—
everything was ominously, threateningly dry.
Honda could not identify the insect songs that filled
it all. A sound like the drone bass of all insects, a
sound like a gnashing of teeth in a nightmare, a sound
like an aimless echoing against the ribs.
He stood up again, and again he wondered
whether he would reach the mountain gate. As he
walked on, he could only count the number of
shadows ahead. How many more shadows could he
make his way past in the intensity of the heat, the
torment of the slope? But he had already passed
three since he had begun counting. A shadow
stretched halfway across the road. Should he count it
as a full shadow or only half a shadow?
Where the road curved gently to the left there were
bamboo thickets. They were like settlements in the
world of man. The delicate young leaves crowded
thickly one against another, some light as asparagus,
some black with a powerful malice and perversity.
As he sat down and wiped at the sweat once more,
he saw a butterfly, the first. It was an outline in the
distance, and cobalt freshly adorned the russet of the
wings as it came nearer.