The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

them were quite devoid of sanctity. They all had the
same hands, vigorously scoured with soap.
Even at the pine grove of Mio, angels in the empty
skull of poetry answered to the unspeakable demands
of men, and were forced into myriads and myriads of
twists and turns, like circus performers. The cloudy
skies were traced as if with a mesh of silver hightension
wires by their dances. In dreams men would
meet with only the marks of the decay of angels.
It was past three. “The Pine Grove of Mio.
Nihondaira Prefectural Park.” The rough-scaled bark
of the tree was enshrouded in the green of moss.
Above a gentle flight of stone stairs, the pines sent
rude bolts of lightning across the sky. The blossoms,
veils of green smoke that even the branches of
strangling pines will send forth, shut off a lifeless sea.
“The sea!” said Keiko joyously.
Honda did not trust the joy. There was a little of her
party manner in it, of flattery for the villa at which she
was a guest. Yet exaggeration can spawn pleasure in
something that is nothing at all. At least the two of
them were not lonely.
Outside a pair of shops, their cantilever shelves
bulging with red Coca-Cola cartons and souvenirs,
stood a pair of photographer’s dummies with
apertures for two faces: Jirōchō, the boss of Shimizu