It was certainly
not any impression of this kind that could or would restore the hope I had
lost of succeeding one day in becoming an author and poet, for each of
them was associated with some material object devoid of any intellectual
value, and suggesting no abstract truth. But at least they gave me an
unreasoning pleasure, the illusion of a sort of fecundity of mind; and in
that way distracted me from the tedium, from the sense of my own impotence
which I had felt whenever I had sought a philosophic theme for some great
literary work. So urgent was the task imposed on my conscience by these
impressions of form or perfume or colour--to strive for a perception of
what lay hidden beneath them, that I was never long in seeking an excuse
which would allow me to relax so strenuous an effort and to spare myself
the fatigue that it involved. As good luck would have it, my parents
called me; I felt that I had not, for the moment, the calm environment
necessary for a successful pursuit of my researches, and that it would be
better to think no more of the matter until I reached home, and not to
exhaust myself in the meantime to no purpose.
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