I like the image of spring snow melting amid the eruption of life. Mishima’s writing has that hint of darkness to it, or I might be reading too much into his ending. I think someone wrote about wanting to grow up to write achingly beautiful stories that end sadly. Kind of like Ishiguro’s Remains of the Day. In acting class in Davis, I learnt that compelling drama is about conflict and its resolution. Without conflict, drama is not compelling. Life is the same. Except dramas all too often end swimmingly well. Which makes sad stories all the more beautiful to behold. Mishima had his preoccupation with a beautiful death, his seppuku would not be ridiculed by sagging flesh. He sent the last book of his tetralogy to his publishers before he went on his way. His tetralogy parallels his life, both ending violently, making for compelling reading.
The only thing that seemed valid to him was to live for the emotions – gratuitous and unstable, dying only to quicken again, dwindling and flaring without direction or purpose.