Runaway Horses, by Yukio Mishima

I know I’ve said this a million times already, whether in this blog or in conversation, but Mishima is a genius. Each book I read of his is carefully controlled, beautifully composed, and culturally and psychologically insightful. Though I don’t necessarily sympathize with or understand all of the characters—this novel in particular, the story of a young “patriot” determined to lead a rebellion to restore the honor and glory of the old days of Japan, or, failing that, kill himself to redeem his old honor, was utterly alien to me, mostly because suicide is not held in such high esteem in Western culture--I could still, at least, begin to see where each character was coming from, an impressive accomplishment considering their sheer foreignness. Mishima is also a master of prose, ranging from the subtly funny ("The lady was blessed with the ability to discover in herself ever fresh sources of woner, though she was at the same time able to forgo discovering that she was in fact little by little growing fat") to the vaguely yet gracefully descriptive ("It was as though a length of beautiful, thick golden thread had arched its graceful way past the needle of Honda’s perception, barely grazing it. It had touched the needle, but, just as it seemed about to pass through the eye, it had turned aside and was gone. As though fearful of being woven vigorously into the embroidery material, blank but for the faint pattern sketched upon it, the thread had slipped to one side of the needle’s eye and passed beside it. The fingers that guided it were huge yet slender and extremely supple"). His books, though slow, are a true pleasure to read.