The rain picked up. I followed a line of spruce followed that joined with a grove of leafy aspen. Under canopy of branches, I tried to shield myself from the downpour. Droplets of water dripping off my nylon shell jacket and off the brim of my Houston Astros baseball cap. I worshiped Nolan Ryan, Major League strikeout king. But that world was nowhere near Isaac Lake. I was eight years old and utterly alone. Only rain and the murmur of nature. Alive.
There's a kind of Ah-ha! Somebody at least for a moment feels about something or sees something the way that I do. It doesn't happen all the time. It's these brief flashes or flames, but I get that sometimes. I feel unalone—intellectually, emotionally, spiritually. I feel human and unalone and that I'm in a deep, significant conversation with another consciousness in fiction and poetry in a way that I don't with other art.
I am not sure that it is of the first importance that you should be happy. Many an unhappy man has been of deep service to himself and to the world.