faculties are dormant, when a sort of darkness reigns within us, and
we are lost in the contemplation of things outside us, an idea
suddenly flies forth, and rushes with the swiftness of lightning
across the infinite space which our inner vision allows us to
perceive. This radiant idea, springing into existence like a
will-o'-the-wisp, dies out never to return; an ephemeral life, like that
of babes who give their parents such infinite joy and sorrow; a sort of
still-born blossom in the fields of the mind. Sometimes an idea,
instead of springing forcibly into life and dying unembodied, dawns
gradually, hovers in the unknown limbo of the organs where it has its
birth; exhausts us by long gestation, develops, is itself fruitful,
grows outwardly in all the grace of youth and the promising attributes
of a long life; it can endure the closest inspection, invites it, and
never tires the sight; the investigation it undergoes commands the
admiration we give to works slowly elaborated. Sometimes ideas are
evolved in a swarm; one brings another; they come linked together;
they vie with each other; they fly in clouds, wild and headlong.
Again, they rise up pallid and misty, and perish for want of strength
or of nutrition; the vital force is lacking. Or again, on certain
days, they rush down into the depths to light up that immense
obscurity; they terrify us and leave the soul dejected.

"Ideas are a complete system within us, resembling a natural kingdom,
a sort of flora, of which the iconography will one day be outlined by
some man who will perhaps be accounted a madman.

"Yes, within us and without, everything testifies to the livingness of
those exquisite creations, which I compare with flowers in obedience
to some unutterable revelation of their true nature!