“‘Yes.’
“‘You, who have been a monk for so many years!’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Since you have been here?’
“‘Yes, since then.’
“‘And you would tell me that the feeling passed, that hope came again, and the dream as you call it?’
“‘I would say that what has lived in a heart can die, as we who live in this world shall die.’
“‘Ah, that—the sooner the better! But you are wrong. Sometimes a thing lives in the heart that cannot die so long as the heart beats. Such is my passion, my torture. Don’t you, a monk—don’t dare to say to me that this love of mine could die.’
“‘Don’t you wish it to die?’ I asked. ‘You say it tortures you.’
“‘Yes. But no—no—I don’t wish it to die. I could never wish that.’