The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

ustle in the new houses beyond the orange grove.
Dogs barked. Sparrows flitted among the orange
branches. On south verandas men who finally had
houses of their own were sprawled on rattan chairs
reading newspapers. He caught glimpses of aproned
women inside. The newly tiled roofs were a violent
blue. The voices of children were like splinters of
glass.
Tōru liked to look at people as at animals in a zoo.
The bath was ready. Always after work he had a long
bath and scrubbed every hollow of himself. He only
had to shave once a week.
Naked, he creaked across the washing platform
and got in without washing. No one would use the
bath after him. He had set the thermostat, and it had
missed by no more than a degree or two. Warmed,
he got out and washed at his leisure. When he was
tired and short of sleep, a cold sweat came out on his
face and at his armpits. He stirred up a good suds
and scrubbed industriously at his armpits.
The light from the window slipped down blue-white
over his upraised arms and caught the left nipple,
beside an armpit now hidden in suds. He smiled. He
had been born with three inlaid moles, like the
Pleiades. From he did not know when, they had
seemed to him like proof in the flesh that limitless