he scrutinized Gautama’s head, his shoulders, his feet, his quietly dangling hand, and it seemed to him that every joint of every finger on this hand was doctrine; it spoke, breathed, wafted, and glinted Truth. This man, this Buddha, was genuine down to the gestures of his littlest finger. This man was holy. Never had Siddhartha revered a man like this, never had he loved a man as he loved this one.
