In 1950, at thirty-five, Alan Watts walked away from everything he had built. He was an ordained Episcopal priest, a chaplain at a respected university, an author of books on Christian mysticism, a man who had climbed the exact ladder he was supposed to climb. He resigned the priesthood, left his marriage, and entered a year of near-total seclusion.

He had reached the place he was aiming for and found nothing waiting there.

What followed was the real work of his life. He moved to California and became the voice that carried Zen and Taoism to millions of Westerners, the man who spent the rest of his years telling people the thing he had learned the hard way. That the success they were chasing was an idea someone else handed them. That you can win the whole game and still stand in the winner's circle asking, is this all?