With that, he began to walk. He remembered how he had felt on
the carousel, tried to feel like that...
He remembered turning the Winnebago, shifting it at right angles
to everything. He tried to capture that sensation—
And then, easily and perfectly, it happened.
It was like pushing through a membrane, like plunging up from
deep water into air. With one step he had moved from the tourist path
on the mountain to...
To somewhere real. He was Backstage.
He was still on the top of a mountain, that much remained the
same. But it was so much more than that. This mountaintop was the
quintessence of place, the heart of things as they were. Compared to it,
the Lookout Mountain he had left was a painting on a backdrop, or a
papier-mâché model seen on a TV screen—merely a representation of
the thing, not the thing itself.
This was the true place. p418
