he knew it anyway and without understanding

[brettashley]

He had at last begun to sense the rhythm of life in the ancient town, and how it was that his own pulse should eventually conform to it. And this in itself was a grave satisfaction to him. He had always been on the lookout for reverences, and here was a holiness more intrinsic than any he could ever have imagined-- a slow, druidic processsion of seasons in the narrow streets.

It was late at night that he liked best to use his mind, to read and write with cigarettes and black coffee. Then, alone with himself he could take stock of all his resources and prospects, and he could find his place among them.

House Made of Dawn By N. Scott Momaday