“Was this seppuku? He was thinking. It was a sensation of utter chaos, as if the sky had fallen on his head and the world was reeling drunkenly. His will power and courage, which had seemed so robust before he made the incision, had now dwindled to something like a singe hair-like thread of steel and he was assailed by the uneasy feeling that he must advance along this thread, clinging to it with desperation. His clenched fist had gone moist. Looking down, he saw that both his hand and cloth about the blade were drenched in blood. His loincloth, too, was dyed a deep red. It struck him as incredible that, amid this terrible agony, things which could still be seen and things that existed still existed.”
Yukio Mishima, “Patriotism”.
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