"Nature such as yours, endowed with strong and delicate senses, the inspired, the dreamers, the poets, the lovers, are almost always superior to us men of thought. Your origin is maternal. You live in fullness, you are granted the strength of love and vibrant experience. We spiritual beings, who often seem to guide and direct you, do not live in fullness; we live in aridity. The richness of life belongs to you, the essence of fruits to you, the garden of love to you, the beautiful land of art. Your homeland is the earth, ours is the idea. Your danger is to drown in the world of senses, ours is to suffocate in the void. You are an artist, I am a thinker. You sleep on your mother's breast, I keep watch in the desert. The sun shines on me, the moon and the stars on you; your dreams are those of girls, mine of boys…"