If there would only be another race on this wide earth, another tribe, another person even, who would share in my joy of the underrated things: of the music of peasants, of the ecstacy of labour, of a pristine world seen from the goat paths...
What I revel in, the world will never deign to tread.
Sometimes in the midst of my joy I would feel loneliness, but not enough. And the world watches this idiot dancing and singing to himself on the sidewalk, as if he is in the village dance hall, with all his friends and family at his side
