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"What I want to do is to preserve the images I have of my father and of Kurahara. Of Kurahara as the perfect villain."
"Will that make you perfect too?"
"Perfection is no concern of mine."
"If it isn't, why do you let things bother you so?"

Kiyoaki had been beautiful. His life had been useless, devoid of any purpose whatsoever. He had passed swiftly through the world, his beauty severely limited to but a single lifespan, to an instant like that depicted in the chanted line: "Drawing out brine cart along, how briefly we live in this sad world, how fleetingly!"

Kiyoaki's existence, his life, its consequences—Honda realized that it was a long time indeed since he had concentrated so intently on this. It was easy to think of Kiyoaki's life as a breath of fragrance that had wafted faintly over a single era before vanishing. Even so, Kiyoaki's sin, Kiyoaki's heartbreak remained. And Honda himself would never be able to make reparation.

The will of the Emperor penetrated the sweat, the blood, the very flesh of these young men, piercing their bodies like X-rays. From high above the entranceway of regimental headquarters, the golden chrysanthemum of the imperial crest, brilliant in the sunshine, looked down upon this beautiful, sweaty, intricate choreography of death.
And elsewhere? Elsewhere throughout Japan the rays of the sun were blocked.

"I wonder what the Lieutenant is really like."
Isao spoke up: "I think he is someone who will give us a chance to die."