Some of my periods I have turned and returned in
my head five or six nights before they were fit to be put to paper:
thus it is that I succeed better in works that require laborious
attention than those that appear more trivial, such as letters, in
which I could never succeed, and being obliged to write one is to me a
serious punishment; nor can I express my thoughts on the most trivial
subjects without it costing me hours of fatigue. If I write
immediately what strikes me, my letter is a long, confused, unconnected
string of expressions, which, when read, can hardly be understood.
It is not only painful to me to give language to my ideas but even to
receive them. I have studied mankind, and think myself a tolerable
observer, yet I know nothing from what I see, but all from what I
remember, nor have I understanding except in my recollections. From
all that is said, from all that passes in my presence, I feel nothing,
conceive nothing, the exterior sign being all that strikes me;
afterward it returns to my remembrance; I recollect the place, the
time, the manner, the look, and gesture, not a circumstance escapes me;
it is then, from what has been done or said, that I imagine what has
been thought, and I have rarely found myself mistaken.
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