"The courtesan bent over him, took a long look at his face, at his eyes, which had grown tired. "You are the best lover," she said thoughtfully, "I ever saw. You're stronger than others, more supple, more willing. You've learned my art well, Siddhartha. At some time, when I'll be older, I'd want to bear your child. And yet, my dear, you've remained a Samana, and yet you do not love me, you love nobody. Isn't it so?" "It might very well be so," Siddhartha said tiredly. "I am like you. You also do not love--how else could you practise love as a craft? Perhaps people of our kind can't love. The childlike people can; that's their secret."