Listening to Tibetan monks or nuns chanting is in itself a lovely esthetic experience, even if you have no idea what they’re saying. The imitation of it in unmetrical, toneless English is a rather dismal, drawling drone, like schoolchildren, who have given up all hope of recess, reciting their lessons. I take inspiration from it, now, and I love the prayers, awkward, clunkily-worded translations though they are. There are even particularly gifted chanters who can make them beautiful, and sometimes you’re lucky enough to sit beside one. But it would take a very generous outsider to guess at the beauty we old hands are experiencing.

From mole.