Yukio Mishima


Japanese Writer, Committed Ritual Suicide on this day after failing to inspire an insurrection against the Japanese government

Author Quotes

The one who always wears only ready-made garments, always ready to begin to doubt the existence of the tailor.

There isn?t any fear in existence itself, or any uncertainty, but living creates it.

Was I ignorant, then, when I was seventeen? I think not. I knew everything. A quarter-century's experience of life since then has added nothing to what I knew. The one difference is that at seventeen I had no 'realism'.

When the Golden Temple reflected the evening sun or shone in the moon, it was the light of the water (in the pond before it) that made the entire structure look as if it were mysteriously floating along and flapping its wings. The strong bonds of the temple's form were loosened by the reflection of the quivering water, and at such moments the Golden Temple seemed to be constructed of materials like wind and water and flame that are commonly in motion.

The only people in this world I really trust are my fans - even if they do forget you so fast.

There?s a huge seal called ?impossibility? pasted all over this world. And don?t ever forget that we?re the only ones who can tear it off once and for all.

We all know that the world is empty and that the important thing, the only thing, is to try to maintain order in that emptiness.

When we asked, the name of which he or she lives, every man becomes restless and may even kill themselves. For me, the mere fact that there may be. Have no doubts himself after the existence, just too much peace of nothingness that do not live to the fullest?

The other guys did not feel the need to understand themselves that in me was so compelling: they could carry out their personality with the greatest naturalness, while I had to play a part, and this required a considerable acumen and study

There's no doubt that he's heading straight for tragedy. It will be beautiful, of course, but should he throw his whole life away as a sacrificial offering to such a fleeting beauty--like a bird in flight glimpsed from a window?

We are not wounded so deeply when betrayed by the things we hope for as when betrayed by things we try our best to despise. In such betrayal comes the dagger in the back.

Wherever the lieutenant's eyes moved his lips faithfully followed. The high, swelling breasts, surmounted by nipples like the buds of a wild cherry, hardened as the lieutenant's lips closed about them. The arms flowed smoothly downward from each side of the breast, tapering toward the wrists, yet losing nothing of their roundness or symmetry?The natural hollow curving between the bosom and the stomach carried in its lines a suggestion not only of softness but of resilient strength, and while it gave forewarning to the rich curves spreading outward from here to the hips it had, in itself, an appearance only of restraint and proper discipline. The whiteness and richness of the stomach and hips was like milk brimming in a great bowl, and the sharply shadowed dip of the navel could have been the fresh impress of a raindrop, fallen there that very moment. Where the shadows gathered more thickly, hair clustered, gentle and sensitive, and as the agitation mounted in the now no longer passive body there hung over this region a scent like the smoldering of fragrant blossoms, growing steadily more pervasive? Passionately they held their faces close, rubbing cheek against cheek?Their breasts, moist with sweat, were tightly joined, and every inch of the young and beautiful bodies had become so much one with the other that it seemed impossible there should ever again be a separation?From the heights they plunged into the abyss, and from the abyss they took wing and soared once more to dizzying heights?As one cycle ended, almost immediately a new wave of passion would be generated, and together -with no trace of fatigue- they would climb again in a single breathless movement to the very summit.

The parting, like the white fruit of an apple discoloring instantly around the bite, had begun three days before when they had met aboard the Rakuyo.

These dreams, left like a handful of gold dust in a winnowing pan, were charged with wonder. As time went by, the dreams and the reality took on equal worth among Honda?s diverse memories. What had actually occurred was in the process of merging with what could have occurred. As reality rapidly gave way to dreams, the past seemed very much like the future. When he was young, there had been only one reality, and the future had seemed to stretch before him, swelling with immense possibilities. But as he grew older, reality seemed to take many forms, and it was the past that seemed refracted into innumerable possibilities. Since each of these was linked with its own reality, the line distinguishing dream and reality became all the more obscure. His memories were in constant flux, and had taken on the aspect of a dream.

We had stretched out our arms to each other and supported something in our joined hands, but this thing we were holding was like a sort of gas that exists when you believe in its existence and disappears when you doubt. The task of supporting it seems simple at first glance, but actually requires an ultimate refinement of calculation and a consummate skill.

With a heart unaccustomed to doubting, he never wondered for an instant whether the girl would brave such a storm to keep their rendezvous. He knew nothing of that melancholy and all-too-effective way of passing time by magnifying and complicating his feelings, whether of happiness or uneasiness, through the exercise of imagination.

The afternoon sun beat relentlessly the surface of the sea, and the whole bay er in a single, dramatic sweep of brilliance. Some clouds on the horizon stood out summer, still in silence, partially submerging in water forms sumptuous funeral, prophetic. The muscles of the clouds were as pale as alabaster.

The passage of time, never fails to make his victims, always turns what was sublime in the field for comedy. What after all is corroded? If the exterior is corroded, is it true, then, that the sublime belongs by nature just an exterior that hides a comic heart? Or does the sublime belongs in fact to the whole, but just covered with dust ridiculous ?

They had laid the tender, down-ruffled little bird on a platter and appeared now to be pondering a way to eat out its heart without causing it distress.

We human beings sometimes steer off in a direction in which we hope to find something a little bit better.

Within those confining walls, teachers ? a bunch of men all armed with the same information ? gave the same lectures every year from the same notebooks and every year at the same point in the textbooks made the same jokes.

The average age for a man in the Bronze Age was eighteen, in the Roman era, twenty-two. Heaven must have been beautiful then. Today it must look dreadful. When a man reaches forty, he has no chance to die beautifully. No matter how he tries, he will die of decay. He must compel himself to live.

The past does not only draw us back to the past. There are certain memories of the past that have strong steel springs and, when we who live in the present touch them, they are suddenly stretched taut and then they propel us into the future.

They were simply looking at the sky. In their eyes there was no vision: only the reflection of the blue and the absolute skies of early autumn. Those blue skies though, were unusual skies that I might never see again in my life.

We live in an age in which there is no heroic death.

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Japanese Writer, Committed Ritual Suicide on this day after failing to inspire an insurrection against the Japanese government