A sentiment
takes possession of my soul with the rapidity of lightning, but instead
of illuminating, it dazzles and confounds me; I feel all, but see
nothing; I am warm but stupid; to think I must be cool. What is
astonishing, my conception is clear and penetrating, if not hurried: I
can make excellent impromptus at leisure, but on the instant could
never say or do anything worth notice. I could hold a tolerable
conversation by the post, as they say the Spaniards play at chess, and
when I read that anecdote of a duke of Savoy, who turned himself round,
while on a journey, to cry out "_a votre gorge, marchand de Paris_!" I
said, "Here is a trait of my character!"
This slowness of thought, joined to vivacity of feeling, I am not only
sensible of in conversation, but even alone. When I write, my ideas
are arranged with the utmost difficulty. They glance on my imagination
and ferment till they discompose, heat, and bring on a palpitation;
during this state of agitation I see nothing properly, cannot write a
single word, and must wait till all is over. Insensibly the agitation
subsides, the chaos acquires form, and each circumstance takes its
proper place.
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