The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

as human—that was all right. Honda rested in the
confidence that though he had seen all of the boy, the
boy could not have seen all of him. In the lyrical moods
of his youth, he had been wont to think the machine
the culmination of ugliness; but that was only because
a youthful miscalculation had confused fleshly ugliness
with the ugliness of the machine within him.
The ugliest of machines, very youthful, very
exaggerated, romantic, self-advertising. But that was
all right. Honda could so name it today with the
coolest of smiles. Exactly as he could name a
headache or a pain in the diaphragm. It was nice that
the ugliest of machines should have so beautiful a
face.
The boy was of course unaware of what had
happened in that instant.
Halfway down the stairs, he took the flower. He
crushed the source of his embarrassment in his hand.
“Damn her.” He spoke to himself. “I’d forgotten all
about it.”
Most boys would have flushed. It interested Honda
that no transformation at all came over the white
composure.
The boy changed the subject. “Is there something I
can do for you?”
“Not really. We’re tourists, and we wondered if we