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Those who cannot feel the littleness of great things in them-selves are apt to overlook the greatness of little things in others.
Perhaps we reveal ourselves too much in small things because we have so little of the great to conceal.
Laotse himself spoke of it thus: “There is a thing which is all containing, which was born before the existence of Heaven and Earth. How silent! How solitary! It stands alone and changes not. It revolves without danger to itself and is the mother of the universe. I do not know its name and so call it the Path. With reluctance I call it the Infinite. Infinity is the Fleeting, the Fleeting is the Vanishing, the Vanishing is the Reverting.”
In ethics, the Taoist railed at the laws and the moral codes of society… Definition is always limitation—the “fixed” and the “unchangeless” are but terms expressive of a stoppage of growth. Our standards of morality are begotten of the past needs of society, but is society to remain always the same?
People are not taught to be really virtuous, but to behave properly. We are wicked because we are frightfully self-conscious. We never forgive others because we know that we ourselves are in the wrong. We nurse a conscience because we are afraid to tell the truth to others, we take refuge in pride because we are afraid to tell the truth to ourselves.
The spirit of barter is everywhere… Behold the complacent salesman retailing the Good and True. One can even buy a so-called Religion, which is really but common morality sanctified with flowers and music. Rob the Church of her accessories and what remains behind?
What a tempest in a teacup!... But when we consider how small after all the cup of human enjoyment is, how soon overflowed with tears, how easily drained to the dregs in our quenchless thirst for infinity, we shall not blame ourselves for making so much of the teacup.
Tea is a work of art and needs a master hand to bring out its noblest qualities. We have good and bad tea, as we have good and bad paintings—generally the latter. There is no single recipe for making the perfect tea, as there are no rules for producing a Titian or a Sesson. Each preparation of the leaves has its individuality, its special affinity with water and heat, its hereditary memories to recall, its own method of telling a story.
…we await the great Avatar. Meanwhile, let us have a sip of tea. The afternoon glow is brightening the bamboos, the fountains are bubbling with delight, the soughing of the pines is heard in our kettle. Let us dream of evanescence, and linger in the beautiful foolishness of things.
The Book of Tea, by Okakura Kakuzo (1862-1913), curator of Japanese and Chinese art at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, from 1903 to 1913, was published in 1906.
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