January 26, 2003 02:30 AM
Running too was a mystery. It immediately placed a non-routine burden on the heart, washing away the emotions of the daily round. Before long, my blood would not permit a halt of even a day or two. Something ceaselessly set me to work; my body could no longer tolerate indolence , but begin instantly to thirst for violent action, forever urging me on. My solace lay, indeed lay solely, more than anywhere in the small rebirths that occurred immediately after exercise. Ceaseless motion, ceaseless violent deaths, ceaseless escape from cold objectivity – by now, I could no longer live without such mysteries. And – needless to say – within each mystery there lay a small imitation of death. All unawares I had embarked on a kind of pitiless round. Yet so firmly was I in the clutches of my healthy vice that to go back to the world of words without the mystery of these rebirths was no longer possible.
– Mishima. Sun And Steel