The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

Kinué came upon a basic but elusive link with the
world. With that as her fulcrum, she stood the world
upside down. A most extraordinary revolution.
Exquisite craftiness in taking for misfortune what in
her heart she desired above all.
His way of holding a cigarette somewhat old for his
years, Tōru leaned back and stretched out long legs
in blue jeans. He found nothing the least novel in her
discourse, but he gave not a sign that he was bored.
Kinué was very sensitive to her audience.
He never made fun of her as her neighbors did.
That was why she visited him. He felt in this mad, ugly
woman five years his senior a comrade in apartness.
He liked people who refused to recognize the world.
If the hardness of the two hearts, the one protected
by lunacy, the other by awareness—if the degree of
hardness was about the same, then there need be no
fear of wounds, however much they brushed against
each other. Nor need there be a fear of carnal
brushes. Kinué was now most off her guard. When
Tōru got up with a creaking of his chair and moved
toward her in great strides, she let out a shriek and
ran for the door.
He was hurrying to the telescope. His eye glued to
it, he waved a hand behind him.
“Work to do. Go on home.”