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There are men who dedicate themselves to an art, to painting, to music, to poetry. - (Rebels of Gor, Chapter 11, Sentence #70)

I myself did not pretend to understand Nodachi. He was a teacher, and a master. He was wedded to the sword, and it was as alive in his grip as if it were his own hand. There are men who dedicate themselves to an art, to painting, to music, to poetry. They strive for the perfections, the nuances, of shades, of colors, which only they can see, of notes which only they can hear, seeking the perfect drawing on silk, the tree that is living, the never-to-be forgotten cloud, the cascading tumble of sparkling water descending a hill, the perfect line of poetry, the beauty which perhaps only they can fully see, but for which they live. And this strange, short, thickly built man, so unprepossessing, so commonplace in appearance, so ragged in garments with hair so unkempt, this man so solitary, and lonely, so shy, so quiet, so dignified in speech, sought a kindred perfection, but it had to do with a finely honed blade, with skills, with a craft in which a perfection never to be achieved was incessantly sought. I did not understand him. - (Rebels of Gor, Chapter 11)