The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

ipod like a tropical bird. The Izu Peninsula loomed
whitely beyond. A large cargo ship was passing. As if
the sea had set out its wares for sale, a circle of
driftwood and empty bottles and seaweed marked the
high tide.
“Well, there you have it, the spot where the angel
danced the heavenly dance to get back her feathered
robe. There they all are getting their pictures taken
again. That’s the way to do it. Don’t even look at the
pine, just get your picture taken. Do you suppose they
think it makes so much difference that they should be
at a spot where something remarkable happened and
stay long enough to get a shutter clicked in their
faces?”
“You take it too seriously.” Keiko sat down on a
stone bench and lighted a cigarette. “It’s beautiful. I’m
not in the least disappointed. It may be dirty and the
tree may be about to die, but it has a spell. If it were
all pretty and dreamy the way it is in the play, then it
would be a lie. The naturalness is very Japanese. I’m
glad we came.” So Keiko seized the lead.
She enjoyed everything. That was her queenly
prerogative.
In the vulgarity, as heavy and all-pervasive as a
sultry sand-laden wind during the summer rains, she
happily, gaily saw her sights, and she took Honda with