bjective material value.

Life as an idea engrosses me with the same ardor as in the earlier
boyish days, with the difference that there is much to admire and so
much less to reverence and be afraid of. I harp always on the "idea"
of life as I dwell perpetually on the existence of the moment.

I might say, then, that my childhood was comparable, in its simplicity
and extravagance of wonder, to the youth of Odilon Redon, that
remarkable painter of the fantasy of existence, of which he speaks so
delicately in letters to friends. His youth was apparently much like
mine, not a youth of athleticism so much as a preoccupancy with wonder
and the imminence of beauty surrounding all things.

I was preoccupied with the "being" of things. Things in themselves
engrossed me more than the problem of experience. I was satisfied with
the effect of things upon my senses, and cared nothing for their
deeper values. The inherent magic in the appearance of the world about
me, engrossed and amazed me. No cloud or blossom or bird or human ever
escaped me, I think.

I was not indifferent to anything that took shape before me, though
when it came to people I was less credulous of their perfection
because they pressed forward their not always certain credentials upon
me. I reverenced them then too much for an imagined austerity as I
admire them now perhaps not enough for their charm, for it is the
charm of things and people only that engages and satisfies me. I have
completed my philosophical equations, and have become enamored of
people as having the same propensities as all other objects of nature.
One need never question appearances. One accepts them for their face
value, as the camera accepts them, without recommendation or
specialized qualification. They are what they become to one. The
capacity for legend comes out of the capacity for experience, and it
is in this fashion that I hold such high respect for geniuses like
Grimm and Andersen, but as I know their qualities I find myself
leaning with more readiness toward Lewis Carroll's superb "Alice in
Wonderland."

I was, I suppose, born backward, physically speaking. I was
confronted with the vastitude of the universe at once, without the
ingratiating introduction of the fairy tale. I had early made the not
so inane decision that I would not read a book until I really wanted
to. One of the rarest women in the world, having listened to my
remark, said she had a book she knew I would lik