What is
inspiration?"
"Ah, that's the point--inspiration," said Steingall, waking up.
"Inspiration," said Quinny, eliminating Steingall from his preserves
with the gesture of brushing away a fly--"inspiration is only a form of
hypnosis, under the spell of which a man is capable of rising outside of
and beyond himself, as a horse, under extraordinary stress, exerts a
muscular force far beyond his accredited strength. The race of geniuses,
little and big, are constantly seeking this outward force to hypnotize
them into a supreme intellectual effort. Talent does not understand such
a process; it is mechanical, unvarying, chop-chop, day in and day out.
Now, what you call inspiration may be communicated in many ways--by the
spectacle of a mob, by a panorama of nature, by sudden and violent
contrasts of points of view; but, above all, as a continual stimulus,
it comes from that state of mental madness which is produced by love."
"Huh?" said Stibo.
"Anything that produces a mental obsession, _une idee fixe_, is a form
of madness," said Quinny, rapidly.
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