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We hang on to the spark of those imperfect perfections, and build a little life around them, like one who nurtures a fire. In the thought that we will never be entitled to the other, “perfect perfection”, at least not in this lifetime.

“However crude all this may be, it proves that Man has a feeling that he is truly represented in something which exceeds himself. He is aware that he is not imperfect, but incomplete. He knows that in himself some meaning has yet to be realized. We do not feel the wonder of it, because it seems so natural to us that barbarism in Man is not absolute, that its limits are like the limits of the horizon.

On the occasions when these are overcome, our inner self is filled with joy, which indicates that through such freedom we come into touch with the Reality that is an end in itself and therefore is bliss.”

(Tagore, The Religion of Man, p. 36-41, 1931)

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