Fain would we remain barbarians, if our claim to civilization were to be based on the gruesome glory of war.

The art of life lies in a constant readjustment to our surroundings.

Those who cannot feel the littleness of great things in themselves are apt to overlook the greatness of little things in others.

Perfection is everywhere if we only choose to recognise it.

Teaism is a cult founded on the adoration of the beautiful among the sordid facts of everyday existence. It inculcates purity and harmony, the mystery of mutual charity, the romanticism of the social order.

For life is an expression, our unconscious actions the constant betrayal of our innermost thought. Perhaps we reveal ourselves too much in small things because we have so little of the great to conceal. The tiny incidents of daily rouitine are as much a commentary of racial ideas as the highest flight of philosophy or poetry.

Meanwhile, let us have a sip of tea. The afternoon glow is brightening the bamboos, the fountains are bubbling with delight, the soughing of the pines is heard in our kettle. Let us dream of evanescence, and linger in the beautiful foolishness of things.