or to place in any order the images and characters I imprinted in
it. I had no other thought but only to see the objects that struck
my senses. Neither could chance make so marvellous a book: even
all the art of man is too imperfect ever to reach so high a
perfection, therefore what hand had the skill to compose it?

The second wonder I find in my brain, is to see that my mind reads
with so much ease, whatever it pleases, in that inward book; and
read even characters it does not know. I never saw the traces or
figures imprinted in my brain, and even the substance of my brain
itself, which is like the paper of that book, is altogether unknown
to me. All those numberless characters transpose themselves, and
afterwards resume their rank and place to obey my command. I have,
as it were, a divine power over a work I am unacquainted with, and
which is incapable of knowledge. That which understands nothing,
understands my thought and performs it instantly. The thought of
man has no power over bodies: I am sensible of it by running over
all nature. There is but one single body which my bare will moves,
as if it were a deity; and even moves the most subtle and nicest
springs of it, without knowing them. Now, who is it that united my
will to this body, and gave it so much power over it?


SECT. L. The Mind of Man is mixed with Greatness and Weakness.
Its Greatness consists in two things. First, the Mind has the Idea
of the Infinite.


Let us conclude these observations by a short reflection on the
essence of our mind; in which I find an incomprehensible mixture of