Look Homeward, Angel

Sometimes, pulling himself abreast the high walls of his crib, he glanced down dizzily at the patterns of the carpet far below; the world swam in and out of his mind like a tide, now printing its whole sharp picture for an instant, again ebbing out dimly and sleepily, while he pieced the puzzle of sensation together bit by bit, seeing only the dancing fire-sheen on the poker, hearing then the elfin chuckle of the sun-warm hens, somewhere beyond in a distant and enchanted world. Again, he heard the their morning-wakeful crowing clear and loud, suddenly becoming a substantial and alert citizen of life; or, going and coming in alternate waves of fantasy and fact, he heard the loud, faery thunder of Daisey's parlour music.

He would crawl on the vast design of the carpet, his eyes intent upon the great wooden blocks piled chaotically on the floor. All the letters of the alphabet, in bright multi-coloured carving, were engraved upon them. Holding them clumsily in his tiny hands, he studied for hours the symbols of speech, knowing that he had here the stones of the temple of language and striving desperately to find the key that would draw order and intelligence from the anarchy. Great voices soared far above him, vast shapes came and went, lifting him to dizzy heights, depositing him with exhaustless strength.

Thomas Wolfe

Look Homeward, Angel