Rebecca. Really?

Brendel. Those you have read, yes. My really important works no
man or woman knows anything about. No one--except myself.

Rebecca. How is that?

Brendel. Because they are not yet written.

Rosmer. But, my dear Mr. Brendel--

Brendel. You know, my dear John, that I am a bit of a sybarite--a
gourmet. I have always been so. I have a taste for solitary
enjoyment, because in that way my enjoyment is twice--ten times--as
keen. It is, like this. When I have been wrapped in a haze of
golden dreams that have descended on me--when new, intoxicating,
momentous thoughts have had their birth in my mind, and I have
been fanned by the beat of their wings as they bore me aloft--at
such moments I have transformed them into poetry, into visions,
into pictures. In general outlines, that is to say.

Rosmer. Quite so.

Brendel. You cannot imagine the luxury of enjoyment I have
experienced! The mysterious rapture of creation!--in, general
outlines, as I said. Applause, gratitude, eulogies, crowns of
laurel!--all these I have culled with full hands trembling with
joy. In my secret ecstasies I have steeped myself in a happiness
so, intoxicating--