Tea...is a religion of the art of life.
A garden is a friend you can visit any time.
Let us dream of evanescence, and linger in the beautiful foolishness of things.
The art of life lies in a constant readjustment to our surroundings.
Our mind is the canvas on which the artists lay their colour; their pigments are our emotions; their chiaroscuro the light of joy, the shadow of sadness. The masterpiece is of ourselves, as we are of the masterpiece.
Translation is always a treason, and as a Ming author observes, can at its best be only the reverse side of a brocade- all the threads are there, but not the subtlety of colour or design.