In our village, folks say God crumbles up the old moon into stars.
... We brush aside all scales not our own, as if they were follies or delusions.
The essence of life will never be captured by even the greatest of formulas.
Only the first swath cut by the scythe is difficult.
There is a law of time, a law of oblivion: glory to the dead; life to the living.
It is the artist who realizes that there is a supreme force above him and works gladly away as a small apprentice under God's heaven.