The purest evil that human efforts could attain, in other words, was probably achieved by those men who made their wills the same and who made their … - Yukio Mishima

"I think it's a wonderful song," she said. But she was only shielding his pride, he knew. Obviously this was the first time she had ever heard the song, though she pretended to know it well. She can't penetrate to the feelings deep down in a song like this; or see through the murk of my manhood to the longing that sometimes makes me weep; fair enough: then as far as I'm concerned, she's just another body.

Only knowledge can turn life's unbearableness into a weapon.

When I arrived at the house in the suburbs that night I seriously contemplated suicide for the first time in my life. But as I thought about it, the idea became exceedingly tiresome, and I finally decided it would be a ludicrous business. I had an inherent dislike of admitting defeat. Moreover, I told myself, there's no need for me to take such decisive action myself, not when I'm surrounded by such a bountiful harvest of death — death in an air raid, death at one's post of duty, death in the military service, death on the battlefield, death from being run over, death from disease — surely my name has already been entered in the list for one of these: a criminal who has been sentenced to death does not commit suicide. No — no matter how I considered, the season was not auspicious for suicide. Instead I was waiting for something to do me the favor of killing me. And this, in the final analysis, is the same as to say that I was waiting for something to do me the favor of keeping me alive.