It skims in through the eye, and by means of the utterly delicate retina hurls shadows like insect legs inward for translation. Then an immense space opens up in silence and an endlessly fecund sub-universe the writer descends, and asks the reader to descend after him, not merely to gain instructions but also to experience delight, the delight of mind freed from matter and exultant in the strength it has stolen from matter.
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The sky Scorched by the sun, Weeps Fecund tears.
But the forest Wounded by the wind, Weeps Dead leaves.
Why so wintery? Summer's Yet to come, and the fall of Glorious autumn.
If I could use words Like falling leaves, What a bonfire My poems would make!
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The man whose whole activity is diverted to inner meditation becomes insensible to all his surroundings. If he loves, it is not to give himself, to blend in fecund union with another being, but to meditate on his love. His passions are mere appearances, being sterile. They are dissipated in futile imaginings, producing nothing external to themselves.
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