Sometimes a messenger would arrive on foot from Saba, having trudged 20 miles with a basket containing two or three fine durian fruit, if it happened to be the season, or perhaps an old mask or piece of stone sculpture, for the Anak Agung (local prince) knew I collected these, although he could not possibly see why. When a thing was old you threw it out, and he could not understand any enthusiasm for a carving or ancient bronze green with age, any more than he could understand my love for the stiff, unadorned music of the mountain villages.

— Locals don’t appreciate their own art, Bali  

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