Mishima was undoubtedly a very talented, driven, tormented writer. But he is no paragon.

People from the old days have amazing stories to tell. One old farmer I met told me how, when he was a boy, U.S. fighter planes used to come up the river and shoot up the livestock and farmers. A woman was literally torn from shoulder to hip by autocannon fire in front of his eyes; he carried her to a tunnel where she died within a few minutes.

When the war ended there was no food, so he and his father would go foraging in the forest for roots, which they carried home and boiled to extract the meagre starch.

It’s a pity that the NHK documentary series Project X has never been released in English. So many men dedicated their lives in the years after the war for the betterment of society and nobody realises. The stories have to be seen to be believed.

One man, seeking to develop steel of a high enough quality to make razor blades that could compete with foreign offerings, sought out an aged former swordsmith in the mountains and became his apprentice. They attempted to mechanise the ancient tatara process of smelting iron ore into tamahagane, jewel-steel. Trial was met with much error, to the point that the old smith swore to the gods that he would disembowel himself if this one final attempt did not work. Thankfully, they got the air blast setting right and produced some very excellent steel, which became the foundation for the company’s razor blade business.

Compare the old smith’s 覚悟, determination, to Mishima’s. The former bore the weight of the uncaring gods, centuries of craft and tradition, and the needs of his apprentices and society. The latter—guilt at dodging the draft.