A Man Isn't Tiny Or Giant Enough

His Conviction Of Having No Purpose In Life Other Than To Act As A Distillation Of Poison Was Part Of The Ego Of An Eighteen-year-old. He Had Resolved That His Beautiful White Hands Would Never Be Soiled Or Calloused. He Wanted To Be Like A Pennant, Dependent On Each Gusting Wind. The Only Thing That Seemed Valid To Him Was To Live For The Emotions--gratuitous And Unstable, Dying Only To Quicken Again, Dwindling And Flaring Without Direction Or Purpose.

I Seemed Like A Baby Bird Keeping Its Truly Innocent Animal Lusts Hidden Under Its Wing. I Was Being Tempted, Not By The Desire Of Possession, But Simply By Unadorned Temptation Itself.

Let Us Remember That The Central Reality Must Be Sought In The Writer's Work: It Is What The Writer Chose To Write, Or Was Compelled To Write, That Finally Matters. And Certainly Mishima's Carefully Premeditated Death Is Part Of His Work.

I Want To Make A Poem Of My Life.

A Samurai Is A Total Human Being, Whereas A Man Who Is Completely Absorbed In His Technical Skill Has Degenerated Into A ‘function’, One Cog In A Machine.