Yukio Mishima: The Sound of Waves

Once again it came to pass that Shinji, little given to thinking as he was, was lost in thought. He was thinking that in spite of all they’d been through, here they were in the end, free within the moral code to which they had been born, never once been estranged from the providence of the gods… that, in short, it was this little island, enfolded in darkness, that had protected their happiness and brought their love to this fulfillment.


In the pale light of daybreak the gravestones looked like so many white sails of boats anchored in a busy harbor. They were sails that would never again be filled with wind, sails that, too long unused and heavily dropping, had been turned into stone just as they were. The boats' anchors had been thrust so deeply into the dark earth that they could never again be raised.


Nor was the sound of the waves strong, but coming regularly and peacefully, as though the sea were breathing in healthy slumber.


“Oh, Shinji-san, let us go on truly, with strong hearts!”