Scene 25. The psychiatrist, concerning the worship of a 17-year-old stable boy raised in isolation by his religious mother:
I only know it’s the core of his life. What else has he got? Think about him. He can hardly read. He knows no physics or engineering to make the world real for him. No paintings to show him how others have enjoyed it. No music except for television jingles. No history except tales from a desperate mother. No friends. Not one kid to give him a joke, or make him know himself more moderately. He’s a modern citizen for whom society doesn’t exist.
This pairs with the previous post.