As the years go by I increasingly have noticed the mystical power of art. Only in art have so many of the secrets of nature congealed. So I consider that glory has always belonged to those poets who can most move people's hearts. Humans have always followed the road of art--- to contact the riddle of time, to verify the mysteries of life. All that is in nature can be set in motion and brought into people's field of vision by the hand of art. It's relationship to people is the most singular. People are fascinated by art because they are fascinated with themselves, and fascinated by all that this world shows to them. A person who has grown up healthily has no way of choosing his relationship to art.
But in reality a choice does exist. I consider that I have had a choice. There can be many explanations relating to art. This is inevitable. Nonetheless, I have always considered that placing art in the position of choice is a regression.
I once made a choice, so I have also had a regression. The manner of redressing this is perhaps to embrace tightly the result of that choice in search of the soul's sublimation. The more the material lust of this world burgeons, the more calm I become. So, as for art, why should I worry that the best it will give me is an opportunity to abide alone. I have woven many layers of concern: On the one hand I hope that all people will be engaged in art, on the other hand I do fear that its sacredness and purity will be tarnished. In my view, things will only continue to proceed towards desolation until they reach an extreme. This leaves me only to pray silently, for my own protection, and for the saintliness which I have acknowledged. Naturally, this is not possible.
I once dreamed of a silversmith labouring away under the light of a candle, I especially remember the ring of white hair which flashed on top of his head. It was deep in the night, and the middle of that night was the glow of a candle which could be scooped up in the palms of the hands...What is art? What is labour? Were they born and raised together? That morning I exhorted myself...Never leave labour behind---Even though I had never considered doing that, nor had I ever thought of leaving.
The quality of art and that of religion are not entirely the same; but both require that the heart is sincere and earnest. When the frenzied waves of greed and acquisitiveness break the land to pieces and you have no choice but to row off in a boat, what will there be left in your heart? There will be nothing but a sense of ardour and loyalty. Those things which hunger and death cannot wrest away are the only things which are truly precious. How many have sung the praises of material desire, saying that it has created the world. True enough, it has created an evil world; it has also destroyed a world---a tranquil world. Gradually I have come to understand: If you want to preserve abundance forever, the rate at which you accumulate things is not important. What is important is to be able to accumulate. Honest labourers and artists together have discovered the sorrow of history: it is "to be unable."
The years in a person's life are so much like the seasons which are in constant rotation. Sometimes there is a gorgeous blossoming, at other times all is washed completely bare. Then everything must then begin all over again. In seeking constant and perpetual support, what people found was this piece of earth upon which they stand. Millions of years of secret history are mixed in this soil which has given birth to both fresh flowers and poisonous mushrooms. What means have we of understanding and expressing these indescribable things? Even if we obtain only the right to draw close, what is there to rely upon? It is still art. It is still that mysterious power.
The wild earth which gives birth to the myriad things accepts the artist. The wild earth can also refuse, and refuse resolutely and thoroughly. Things which are forced upon it can never gain a foundation. The soil is like a good artist in that it looks profoundly still, but in fact its breast is filled with ardour. An artist can appear to be like green flames, or like the emerald vines blazing there on the ground.
In the end, only a pile of ashes can remain. It is so temporary, even in this respect the artist seems like the emerald vines. Nonetheless, he at least uses this method of drawing close to the torrid earth.
