How can man hail the beauty of the earth, except in a piercing cry? When will we open up our eyes and really see a flower; the earth; water; a woman? Really see our bodies that have been created expressly for the world; really see the world that has been created expressly for our bodies, and say with gratitude: “You please me!”

Often when I am wandering alone in foreign cities, I can barely restrain myself from crying out. What is this blessing, this miracle of being alive; of being old; of being thirsty and able to drink water and feeling refreshed through and through; of being hungry and eating a piece of bread and feeling one’s bones crackle with pleasure? And how came it that pleasure is so intertwined, so at home with Necessity?

I was sitting on a rock outside the Arab palace: the famous Alcazar. There was a pleasant sun. Seville was awake now, whirring like a beehive, with her fragrant gardens. It was still early morning, and the palace gates hadn’t opened yet. I looked hard at my hands bathed in the early morning sunlight, and they seemed to be holding a golden ball. I touched my head, and it seemed to me like the ark, where all the birds and beasts and gods took refuge to save themselves, sailing over the abyss. That early morning, I blessed and wordlessly sang the praises of my five senses, for now—lo and behold!—the doors of the Arabian fairy tale were about to open, and they would be able to enter.