The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

ecame the audiences for her proud lectures on
Japanese culture. Older acquaintances had not
dreamed that Keiko would one day honor them with
discourses on gold-leafed screens.
“But they’re passers in the night with no sense of
gratitude at all.” Honda warned her of the futility.
“They’ll go on to their next posts with not a thought left
in their heads for this one. What’s the point in even
seeing them?”
“The birds of passage are the ones you don’t have
to be on your guard with. You don’t have to worry
about ten years from now, and a new audience every
night is rather fun.”
But she was taking herself seriously, congratulating
herself in a naïve way on furthering international
cultural exchange. She would learn a dance and
immediately unveil it before ambassadorial guests. It
gave her strength to know that her audience was not
likely to detect the flaws.
However assiduously Keiko might refine her
knowledge, it was not up to plumbing the darkness
where stretched the deepest roots of the Japanese.
The dark blood springs that had agitated Isao Iinuma
were far away. Honda called Keiko’s store of
Japanese culture a freezer full of vegetables.
Honda had become recognized at the embassies