Each grass and each form itself is the entire earth. Each memory casts its form, like a pole whose fisherman dozes in his truck. From my bike I see which cars contain tourists, and which are lived in. The pulled-over van with a dog tied to a tree alongside it is one. If we consider the homeless to be tourists, perhaps we'd offer them hotels, fresh towels, maid service. Island of nomads, convertible Mustangs, rice rockets, Sunday's Harley drivers in their leather jackets. According to the New York Times, one monk entered a restroom and came out in street clothes, took the subway out of the city. They're fake, you know. Karl Ove's a novelist who hates fiction, so he writes his everyday; the critics call it “banal,” but women love it. We like our men in street clothes, buying their six-packs with panhandled dough. Real monks don't beg for money.
--8 July 2014
"Each grass": Dogen
Karl Ove: Knausgaard
The photo is from the Facebook page "Fake Monks in New York."
So is the quotation at the end.