Brendel (to them all). Has your public here any intimate acquaintance with my scattered writings?
Kroll. No, I must candidly confess that—
Rebecca. I have read several of them. My foster-father had them.
Brendel. My dear lady, then you have wasted your time. They are simply trash, allow me to tell you.
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.