On the desk of a famous poet there was an inkwell. During the night, when things come alive, it was very full of itself.
'It's incredible,' it said. 'how many beautiful things come out of me. A few drops of my ink are enough to fill an entire page, and then how many wonderful and moving things can be read in it.'
But its vanity began to annoy the pen. 'You don't understand, you fat fool, that you are just the supplier of the raw material. It is I who make use of your ink and write down on paper what I have in me. There is no doubt that it is the pen that does the writing.'
The poet came home from a concert and the music had inspired him.
'How stupid would the bow and violin be,' he wrote on a sheet of paper, 'if they boasted that they alone were making the music. So often men are just as stupid, when we boast of doing something, forgetting that we are all instruments in the hands of God.'
But still he inkwell and the pen, which had been used to write these words, learned no lesson from them.
'It's incredible,' it said. 'how many beautiful things come out of me. A few drops of my ink are enough to fill an entire page, and then how many wonderful and moving things can be read in it.'
But its vanity began to annoy the pen. 'You don't understand, you fat fool, that you are just the supplier of the raw material. It is I who make use of your ink and write down on paper what I have in me. There is no doubt that it is the pen that does the writing.'
The poet came home from a concert and the music had inspired him.
'How stupid would the bow and violin be,' he wrote on a sheet of paper, 'if they boasted that they alone were making the music. So often men are just as stupid, when we boast of doing something, forgetting that we are all instruments in the hands of God.'
But still he inkwell and the pen, which had been used to write these words, learned no lesson from them.
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