I have loved humanity, I have loved it so much. For me, there are three kinds of men; he who curses life, he who blesses it and he who contemplates it. I loved the first for his wretchedness, the second for his indulgence and the third for his perception.

Some believe that art is the imitation of nature; in fact, nature is so sublime that it cannot be imitated. However noble it may be, art cannot perform a single one of the miracles of nature. And besides, why imitate nature when it can be perceived by all those endowed with senses?

Man will be on the path to perfection when he feels that he is one with space that knows no bounds and with the ocean that has no shores; when he becomes that undying fire, that ever-gleaming light, that still air or that violent storm, those clouds charged with lightning, thunder and rain, those rivers merry or sad, those trees in bloom or shedding their leaves, those lands that rise up into mountains or slope down into valleys, those fields under seed or lying fallow.

I have come to learn about things that intrigue people through their strangeness. But barley did I find myself in you presence than I understood that life is none other than the different manifestations of the universal spirit.