Free Runaway Horses by Yukio Mishima

day-to-day world simmered.
    Human beings eating, digesting, excreting, reproducing, loving and hating . . . Honda reflected that these were the human beings under the court’s jurisdiction. If worst came to worst they would appear before it as defendants.
    They alone had reality. Human beings who sneezed, laughed, human beings who went about with absurdly dangling reproductive gear. If all human beings were like this, there was no basis whatsoever for Honda’s fearful mystery. Even if a single reborn Kiyoaki might be hidden in their midst.
    Honda sat at the place of honor to which the priests directed him. On the table before him were wooden boxes of various delicacies and jars of saké as well as plates and small bowls. At appropriate intervals stood vases of wild lilies. Makiko was sitting on the same side of the table, and he was occasionally able to catch a glimpse of her lovely profile and the wisps of hair that fell over her cheek.
    The rays of the early summer sun, scattered by tree branches, fell upon the garden. Now it was the turn for humans to feast.

8
     
     A FTER H ONDA HAD returned home in the afternoon, he asked his wife to arrange for dinner guests and then took a short nap. He had a dream that Kiyoaki suddenly appeared and began telling him how joyful he was at their being reunited. When Honda awoke, however, he did not allow this to excite him. He accounted for it as merely an illustration of the lingering thoughts that had occupied his fatigued mind since the previous night.
    Iinuma and his son arrived at six o’clock. Intending to leave directly by train afterwards, they had brought their luggage with them. When Honda and Iinuma sat down together, they felt awkward about immediately returning to their talk of the past, and instead began to discuss recent politics and social conditions. But Iinuma, apparently in deference to Honda’s position, refrained from voicing any outright complaints about the evils of the times. Isao sat upright, hands on knees, as he listened.
    Those eyes of his, which had flashed brightly even from behind a kendo mask yesterday, seemed extravagantly brilliant here in an ordinary room. They seemed to express intense determination. To have such eyes close to one, to be gazed at intently by such eyes was an extraordinary experience.
    Honda sensed Isao’s eyes on him as he talked with Iinuma, and he felt uneasy. “It’s quite uncalled for to stare like that during a conversation,” he thought, feeling tempted to say a word of remonstrance. Eyes of that kind should not be brought to bear upon the petty doings of everyday life. Honda felt somehow accused by their clear brilliance.
    Two men may talk together enthusiastically for an hour or so about shared experiences, and yet not have a true conversation. A lonely man who wants to indulge his nostalgic mood feels the need of someone with whom to share it. When he finds such a companion, he starts to pour out his monologue as though recounting a dream. And so the talk goes on between them, their monologues alternating, but after a time they suddenly become aware that they have nothing to say to each other. They are like two men standing at either side of a chasm, the bridge across which has been destroyed.
    Then at last, since they cannot bear to remain silent, their conversation turns again to the past. For some reason, Honda found himself yielding to the urge to ask Iinuma why he had published an article in a right-wing newspaper accusing Marquis Matsugae of being disloyal and unfilial.
    “Ah, that!” answered Iinuma. “I hesitated before making an attack on the Marquis, who was so kind to me, but I felt I had to write that article regardless of the consequences. I did it solely out of concern for the nation.”
    Such a smooth, ready answer naturally did not satisfy Honda. He remarked that Kiyoaki, after reading the article and sensing its significance, told him he missed Iinuma.
    A startling surge of emotion swept over