The true genius shudders at incompleteness – imperfection – and usually prefers silence to saying the something which is not everything that should be said.
In books we never find anything but ourselves. Strangely enough, that always gives us great pleasure, and we say the author is a genius.
What might be taken for a precocious genius is the genius of childhood. When the child grows up, it disappears without a trace. It may happen that this boy will become a real painter some day, or even a great painter. But then he will have to begin everything again, from zero.