she was a wonder junkie. in her mind, she was a hill tribesman standing slack-jawed before the real ishtar gate of ancient babylon; dorothy catching her first glimpse of the vaulted spires of the emerald city of oz; a small boy from darkest brooklyn plunked down in the corridor of nations of the 1939 world's fair, the trylon and perisphere bechkoning in the distance; she was pocahontas sailing up the thames estuary with london spread out before her from horizon to horizon."
her heart sang in anticipation. she would discover, she was sure, what else is possible, what could be accomplished by other beings, great beings —beings who had, it seemed likely, been voyaging between the stars when the ancestors of humans were still brachiating from branch to branch in the dappled sunlight of the forest canopy.
sagan, c. (1997). contact: a novel. new york: pocket books.
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