I really admire Yukio Mishima. I still go back and re-read my copy of The Temple of the Golden Pavilion when I have long stretches of time to myself. Sometimes though, thinking about Mishima makes my heart heavy. I used to lend my ex copies of his books, and I can remember offhand comments he would make about my interests that brissled me in a way that makes me resent anyone that put down my interpretations of creative work. More so, I hate when he had nothing to say about it. Interpersonal relationships are hard. I assume now he felt the same way about me when I had nothing to add. And that he did not mean to offend me.