Talent, concentrated

That was what he was. Talented. But talented like a river that’s all little streams and runs. Like, say, for Christmas you get nothing but little stuff. Not one big whopping present, like a diamond or Cadillac. What it ought to be, talent, was concentrated, collected. At a center, like those throbbing black stars one teaspoonful of which would weigh one hundred million tons. The purest . . . all the different rays . . . the burning glass that sets the Burning Bush on fire.
     --From Variation West