Whatever came to him was good. It was life. It was knowledge.
Crowds moved wherever he went, across the bridge to Manhattan, in New York, wherever he went, life flowed and eddied, but he was not part of it.
For he came to perceive that since people were his study, his teachers, the objects through which he could satisfy his persistent wonder about life itself, his own being among others, wherever he live...
His problem was the eternal question: What should he be? Inventor, scientist, artist—the energy he felt surging through him, an energy far more than physical and yet pervading the restlessness of his...
Make love! He disliked the phrase. Could one make love?
Of course imagination is the beginning of creation. Without imagination there can be no creation.
There was no need to hurry that future—yet the length of his own youth pressed upon him. Whatever he was to do next he wanted to begin now. But how to begin and on what?
This was his mind, a storehouse, a computer programmed to life, minute by minute, hour by hour, day and night.
To take each day as a separate page, to be read carefully, savoring all of the details, this is best for me, I think.
Wandering is never waste, dear boy,' he said. 'While you wander you will find much to wonder about, and wonder is the first step to creation.