It was a placing of his destiny in another’s hands, a shifting of the responsibilities of existence. This in itself was compensation, for it is alway… - Jack London

Every book was a peep-hole into the realm of knowledge. His hunger fed upon what he read, and increased.

He was disappointed in it all. He had developed into an alien. As the steam beer had tasted raw, so their companionship seemed raw to him. He was too far removed. Too many thousands of opened books yawned between them and him. He had exiled himself. He had travelled in the vast realm of intellect until he could no longer return home. On the other hand, he was human, and his gregarious need for companionship remained unsatisfied. He had found no new home.

You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.