I think it is only an education, born of false vanity, that has robbed
man of such beliefs. I myself see no essential difference between the
thought of a child who gives food to a piece of wood and the meaning
of some of the libations in primitive religions. Do we not attribute
to trees an attachment to us stronger than life itself when we believe
that one planted on the birthday of a child that sickens and dies will
wither and dry up at the same time?

I have known things in pain. I have known some which are dead. The sad
clothes of our departed wear out quickly. They are often impregnated
with the same disease as those who wore them. They are one with them.

I have often considered objects which were wasting away. Their
disintegration is identical with our own. They have their decay, their
ruptures, their tumors, their madnesses. A piece of furniture gnawed
by worms, a gun with a broken trigger, a warped drawer, or the soul of
a violin suddenly out of tune, such are the ills which move me.

When we become attached to things why do we believe that love is in us
alone, and afterwards regard it as something external to us? Who can
prove that things are incapable of affection, or who can demonstrate
their unconsciousness? Was not that sculptor right who was buried
holding in his hand a lump of the same clay that had obeyed his dream?
Did it not have the devotion of a faithful servant; did it not have a
quality which we should admire all the more, because it had the virtue
of devoting itself in silence, without selfish interest, and with the
passiveness of faith?

Is there not something sublime and radiant in the thing that acts