The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

Harbor, in a pale grove of pines, and Ochō, his lady
friend. Jirōchō’s name was on the triangle of the
umbrella he cradled in his arm. He was in travel
dress, with a walking stick, light-blue mittens and
leggings, and a hitched-up kimono in narrow blue and
white stripes. Ochō had a high chignon, and wore a
black satin kimono and an obi of yellow Hachijō plaid.
Honda urged Keiko on toward the grove, but she
was entranced by the dummies. She repeated
Jirōchō’s name over and over to herself. She knew
nothing about him except his name, not even the
elementary fact that he was a famous gambler; and
Honda’s lecture on the subject left her yet more
entranced.
The nostalgic hues, the fresh, wild vulgarity, quite
enthralled her. Wherever she might search in her own
life with its distant harvest of the carnal, she could
catch no sound so wild and sad in its vulgarity. Her
great virtue was that she was without preconceptions.
What she had never seen and never heard of was, the
last bit of it, “Japanese.”
Almost angrily, Honda sought to break up her love
affair with the dummy.
“Oh, stop it. You’re making a fool of yourself.”
“You think the two of us still have the luxury of being
fools?”