It doesn’t happen often—and most certainly not with me—but some of us are born fully formed, bursting with self-expression and absolutely ready to go. First, though, there’s infancy, the smallish necessity of being somebody’s kid.
It is somehow tragic that a man would make his pilgrimage from birth to death without encountering, at a bend in the road, the spiritual immensity of John Coltrane.
When Aladdin rubbed his hands together, the friction was sufficient to summon the genie in his ring. When his mother buffed his magic lamp, an even greater genie appeared. Apparently, we need friction.
We don’t ponder a flute to penetrate the beauty of a note. Likewise, the genius of men (Einstein, Picasso, van Gogh, Edison, et al) ought not to be confused with the men themselves.
A genius is a man who knows who he is.