Yukio Mishima. Spring snow (№ 441991)

Kiyoaki was thinking about the tides, the changing of the seasons, how he too would soon grow old, and suddenly he caught his breath. He was never seduced by the wisdom of old age. I wish I could die young... And, if possible, without suffering. Refined death, to make it look like a bright silk kimono, dropped from the shoulders on the table, suddenly slid to the dark floor.