On one hand, there are these people, who though are very amiable, rarely concern themselves with the fundamental questions of life; they think for what is practical, but never for what is essential. I can talk to them about life, and they will tell me about the shoes they bought or the restaurant they went to; hardly will there be a further, more delicate inquisition into the structure that sits behind the frame; the impulse carrying forth their dreams. What truly is is rarely their concern.
On the other hand, back in my home, where gathers the company who thoroughly imbues every question with a rightful vigor, who talks about life and meaning more than material classification, who expounds passionately on the human nature, who lives and re-lives experiences in order to trace the nuances and expose the secret of existence – they, though I find their conversations immensely satisfying, and can feel so comforted by the consistent sharpness of their minds; they are sometimes overtly pretentious. One can snap a clever picture of a desk and some books, or a shadow frolicking at the feet of a curtain, or a tree with its individual parts shimmering in the dusk, or any ordinary picture, and still compose an arduous exposition, full of literary hints and a grand proclamation: Look here, look here at the beauty with which I write and the knowledge I have of the more subliminal things in life! Other times, they obfuscate their sentences with a series of obscured academic terms, turning what could have been a worthy piece into a clumsy and senseless one.
This is why it is so hard to find a place to settle.