“There was a great delight among the trees and among the birds and the few men that passed by were not too wrapped up in their own affairs. There was the slip of the new, young moon, just a line, just a suggestion and there was the beauty of a day that was over. A woman in a green sari was carrying a big bundle on her head, her arms swinging freely by her side. You have to die to all things to be aware of this beauty that had no resting place; you couldn’t find it if you sought it; it was not in the museums, in books nor in faces; the smile fades and there are tears. You would never find it if you set out to capture it.
You have to die to all things that you have pursued. You have to die not knowing; you have to die without a purpose, without a motive, maturing in a day and dying in a day, without a past. An aeroplane droned overhead, somebody was taking flying lessons and above the plane were the vultures, endlessly circling, without a beat of the wings; there was delight in their movement but soon they would be coming down to be lost in the darkness of the night. You lived for something, you worked for something and your life was intended for something. You had to be useful to society; everything had its use and you of course were of the highest use—for the church, for the government, for the revolutionary. What was the use of that leaf, that flower and those birds taking their evening bath? But that beauty cannot be used; it had no value, there was no market for it and all life is travail and sorrow. Without that beauty there is no love.
The clouds were gathering around the sun leaving the sky empty. Every bird was now silent and the trees were withdrawing for the night. The moon was too young to cast any shadow but that would come later as she grew older. Innocency and youth were always with death, with the ending of thought. And with death comes that immensity, unapproachable, measureless. And it was there.”
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