---Notes---
"You don't remember a red, liverish moon rising from a canal veiled in mist. And a disordered bed by the window enveloped by the sweet voice of a man singing to his mandolin on the bridge, a bed that looked like seaweed washed ashore on the white sands of the beach, filled with the damp and odor of the sea. He never mentioned a single memory of blood, but the bloodsoaked memories that flashed into his eyes were the source of our infinite tenderness."
"He was trying to create not the emptiness of acts of the flesh that vanishes the instant after satisfaction, but an imperishable cathedral of vice. He was trying to evolve in this world not sporadic acts of evil, but a ode of evil, not deeds so much as principles, not nights of pleasure so much as one long night to last through eternity, not slaves of the whip so much as a kingdom. His fascination with destruction ended in creation... He no longer has a heart. The mind that could write such things is not a human mind. It belongs to some different order. This man, who has abandoned all human feelings, has shut the world of men behind iron bars, and goes walking around it, jingling the keys. He is the keeper of the keys, he alone. My hands can no loner reach him. I have no longer even the strength left to thrust my hands through the bars and beg in vain for his mercy.
What radiance shines from him as he stands there outside my prison bars! He is the freest man in the world. His hands stretch out to the ends of time, to the ends of the world. He piles evil on eveil, and mounts on top. A little more effort will allow his fingers to touch eternity...
Alphonse, the strangest man I have known in this world, has spun a thread of light from evil, created holiness from filth he has gathered. Once again, girdling himself in the armor of his noble house of impeccable pedigree, he has become a pious knight... Human anguish, human suffering, human shrieks rise like the lofty silver horns of his helmet. He presses a sword staed with blood to his lips, and heroically intones the words of his oath... He flies. He soars. His heart beats under the silver armor in anticipation of bloody massacres, banquets where a million corpses lie befuddled with carousing, the quietest of banquets. His icy-cold sword makes lilies wet with blood white again, and his white horse, dabbled with blood, swells forth its chest like the prow of a boat, and advances toward a sky streaked with intermittent flashes of morning lightning."
Stark contrast with how Alphonse allegedly looked while he waited at the door, old, fat, shabby and with little dignity. And finally... "Please ask him to leave. And tell him this: 'The marquise will never see him again.'" How love is perpetuated through perversity and perversity through love! Yukio Mishima's aesthetics lie at the intersection of Tanizaki Junichiro and Baudlaire. See also “The Temple of the Golden Pavilion” and the homoerotic sexual fantasies about slaughtered young men in "Confessions of a Mask". Can't wait to see what Yourcenar has to say about this play.