He wants us to see so much, to love so intensely, let our eccentricities blaze forth. Like a grandfather coaxing his young ones toward the future, he tells us not to be timid or cowed, not to sit on the sidelines of the feast, but to exult with the stone, the thousands of leaves and towers. He wants us to multiply our hands like the coral, let the sky nest on our balconies, welcome the fishes of light
among the wrought iron kelp. He wants us to open with windows like the yawn of some fantastic dolphin. If only we would read the book of nature, we would see that no wind blusters
between East and West, no fence rises between one nature and another, between animal, mineral or plant. We would see that like his spires, the mountains really tilt. We would walk under the slanted palms
of his arches, plunge through corridors as if we were swimming underwater or through the heart of the earth - as it is - as we could be - not tamed or bent by the world, but passionate as molten rock.