The things I did during childhood do not seem as important to me as the overall mystery of existence. I went from one thing to another, as the Buddhists say, like a drunken monkey. Toys, games, junk food — this is what we are raised on in the West, and in much of the world it is considered the acme, and worth rewriting history for.
Years later I look back on that childhood with dismay. What did I learn compared to peasant children in China who worked the farms and raised food for villages? What about the self-sufficient offspring of the Eskimo and the other northern tribes? From the beginning of life they are taught where they are, the manner of the land, the habits of animals and plants, and how to find their way home in a blizzard. In New York City one is raised in an arcade without a sense even that survival is real.
