Capital

"The city. From a distance, the city air is smoke. Up close, it's dirt. It's as if the air also affects the psyche of city dwellers. City people are born with glasses. So he is at least forty years old when he enters this world. What a life for a child in the capital. His eyes see only houses and shop next to shop. Only business and business and the world is only business. Growing up without flowers, without fields, without trees. He sees no birds but in cages. He sees only as much of the sky as he can see from the street frames. Cows were driven along the boulevard and the children ran after them. They don't eat real food. His pantry is tin. When he wants to eat soup, he boils water and takes a spoonful of ointment from a tin. The flame of the soul is the intellect. The oil of this flame is morality. There is no such oil in the city. The flame is not white, but multicoloured. Even if we sometimes hear a speech that radiates spiritual nobility, it turns out to be nothing but parlour morality. The word 'parlour goulash' comes to mind. The cook makes it - for the consumption of others."