I won’t get any better by punishing the people I can’t heal.
Live or die: mere consequences of what you have built. What matters is building well.
Conclusion: better to be a thinking monk than a postmodern thinker.
Tasting is an act of pleasure and writing about that pleasure is an artistic gesture, but the only true work of art, in the end, is another person’s feast.
Civilization is the mastery of violence, the triumph, constantly challenged, over the aggressive nature of the primate. For primates we have been and primates we shall remain, however often we learn to find joy in a camellia on moss. This is the very purpose of education.
Levin delights in the forgetfulness that movement brings, where the pleasure of doing is marvellously foreign to the striving of the will.
Entrusting one’s life is not the same as opening up one’s soul.
When tea becomes ritual, it takes place at the heart of our ability to see greatness in small things.
I belong to the 8% of the world population who calm their apprehension by drowning it in numbers.
In the end, I wonder if the true movement of the world might not be a voice raised in song.
I’m afraid to go into myself and see what’s going on in there.
Because art is life, playing to other rhythms.
What does art do for us? It gives shape to our emotions.
What makes the strength of a soldier isn’t the energy he uses trying to intimidate the other guy by sending him a whole lot of signals, it’s the strength he’s able to concentrate within himself, by staying centered.
Humans live in a world where the weak are dominant. This is a terrible insult to our animal nature, a sort of perversion or a deep contradiction.
Maybe that’s what being alive is about: so we can track down those movments that are dying.
To the rich, therefore, falls the burden of Beauty. And if they cannot assume it, then they deserve to die.
When illness enters a home, not only does it take hold of a body. It also weaves a dark web between hearts, a web where hope is trapped.
The strong ones among humans do nothing. They talk and talk again.
To beauty, all is forgiven, even vulgarity. Intelligence no longer seems an adequate compensation for things...