The young man walks fast by himself through the crowd that thins into the night streets; feet are tired from hours of walking; eyes greedy for warm curve of faces, answering flicker of eyes, the set of a head, the lift of a shoulder, the way hands spread and clench; blood tingles with wants; mind is a beehive of hopes buzzing and stinging... The young man walks by himself searching through the crowd with greedy eyes, greedy eyes taut to hear, by himself, alone.

from John Dos Passos's The 42nd Parallel