Demian

by Hermann Hesse

Even as a small child I had occasionally had a leaning toward looking at bizarre natural forms, not as an observer, but surrendering myself to their unique magic, their confused but profound language. Long, woody tree roots, veins of color in stones, patches of oil floating on water, cracks in glass—all such things had occasionally cast a strong spell over me, especially water and fire, as well, smoke, clouds, dust, and most particularly the moving dots of color I saw when I shut my eyes.