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 it is over. Insensibly the agitation subsides,
the chaos acquires form, and each circumstance takes its proper place.
Have you never seen an opera in Italy? where during the change of scene
everything is in confusion, the decorations are intermingled, and any one
would suppose that all would be overthrown; yet by little and little,
everything is arranged, nothing appears wanting, and we feel surprised to
see the tumult succeeded by the most delightful spectacle. This is a
resemblance of what passes in my brain when I attempt to write; had I
always waited till that confusion was past, and then pointed, in their
natural beauties, the objects that had presented themselves, few authors
would have surpassed me.

Thence arises the extreme difficulty I find in writing; my manuscripts,
blotted, scratched, and scarcely legible, attest the trouble they cost
me; nor is there one of them but I have been obliged to transcribe four