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It was the rainy season in Bangkok. The air was saturated with a continuous fine drizzle, and often drops of rain would dance in a brilliant ray of sunlight.
Tags » Yukio Mishima
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The Setsugoan—the After-the-Snow Retreat—stood on high ground in a hilly part of the Koishikawa district of Tokyo. It had fortunately escaped unharmed during the war; nothing had been damaged either in the magnificent garden, a noted example of Kobori Enshu style covering over a hundred thousand square feet, or in the buildings: a central gate moved here from a certain famous temple in Kyoto, an entrance and visitors’ pavilion lifted bodily from some ancient temple of Nara, and a banqueting hall of more recent construction.
Yukio Mishima speaks, he speaks, he says, “The road does not forgive us” he tells Meyer. Meyer looks down at the road, he examines the paved asphalt, he notices its wear, he estimates it to be several decades old — he spots bricks, exposing upward in angles from beneath its layers — the road is littered with sprinkles of shards of glass, jagged gavels, bottle caps, occasional chips of fake jade — it is like dust, dust that laces tattoos, tattoos from chewing gums, paints, and oil puddles — It is an old, trampled, possibly ancient, inner city, Tokyo road. 581 more words
You might wonder what prompted that thought – and I’ve never prided myself on having a particularly great memory – but the story goes like this! 366 more words