Read Online The Temple of the Golden Pavilion by Yukio Mishima - Free Book Online Page B

Golden Temple, and disappeared leaving an oppressive sound in its wake.
    In the hills at the back there was a solitary pond covered with duckweed, known as the Yasutamizawa. There was a minute island in the pond and on it stood the Shirahebizuka, a five-storied stone tower. The surrounding morning air was noisy with the twittering of birds; none of the birds was to be seen, but the whole forest was twittering with them.
    The summer grass grew in thick clusters in front of the pond. The path was separated from the grass by a low fence. Next to it lay a young boy in a white shirt. A bamboo rake leaned nearby against a low maple.
    The boy raised his body with such energy that he seemed to be gouging a hole in the soft summer air which hovered about us; but when he saw me, he simply said: “Oh, it's you, is it?”
    I had only been introduced to this boy on the previous evening. His name was Tsurukawa and he came from a prosperous temple in the suburbs of Tokyo. He was affluently provided by his family with school expenses, pocket money, and provisions, and had simply been consigned to the Golden Temple through some connection with the Superior, so that he might have a taste of the training given to ordinary acolytes. He had gone home for his summer holiday and had returned to Kyoto late on the previous afternoon. Tsurukawa talked smoothly in a splendid Tokyo accent. He was supposed to enter the middle school of the Rinzai Academy that autumn in the same class as myself, and already last night I had been abashed by his fast, cheerful manner of speech.
    Now when I heard him say "Oh, it's you," my mouth lost its words. He seemed to interpret my silence as a sort of criticism.
    "It's all right, you know. We don't have to sweep all that carefully. The place will get dirty in any case, when the visitors come. Besides, there aren't very many visitors these days.”
    I gave a short laugh. This laughter of mine that I used to emit unconsciously seemed to make some people feel friendly towards me. Thus I could not always be responsible for the detailed impressions that I made on others.
    I climbed over the fence and sat down next to Tsurukawa. His arm was bent round his head and I noticed that though the outside was fairly sunburned, the inner part was so white that one could see the veins through the skin. The rays of the morning sun streamed through the trees and scattered light-green shadows on the grass. I knew instinctively that this boy would not love the Golden Temple as I did. For my attachment to the temple was entirely rooted in my own ugliness.
    â€œI hear that your father died,” said Tsurukawa.
    â€œYes.”
    Tsurukawa quickly turned his eyes to the side and, without any effort to conceal how absorbed he was in his own boyish process of reasoning, said: "The reason you like the Golden Temple so much is that it reminds you of your father, isn't it? I mean, for instance, when you look at it, you remember how much your father liked it.”
    I was rather pleased that his half-correct reasoning was producing no change whatsoever on my apathetic face. Evidently Tsurukawa accurately classified human feelings in the neat little drawers that he kept in his room, like boys who classify various specimens of insects; and occasionally he enjoyed taking them out for a bit of practical experimentation.
    "You're very sad about your father's death, aren't you? That's why there's something lonely about you. I've thought so since I first met you last night."
    His remarks did not repel me in any way. In fact, his feeling that I looked lonely gave me a certain freedom and peace of mind, and the words issued smoothly from my mouth: "There's nothing sad about it, you know.”
    Tsurukawa looked at me, brushing up his eyebrows, which were so long that they seemed to get in his way.
    "Dear me!” he said, “so you hated your father, did you? Or at least you disliked him.”
    â€œI had nothing against him and I didn't