The more profound the solitude in which I now live, the more do I feel that some objects are necessary to fill up the void, and those which imagination denies, or that my memory repulses, are supplied by those spontaneous productions.
The more profound the solitude in which I now live, the more do I feel that some objects are necessary to fill up the void, and those which imagination denies, or that my memory repulses, are supplied by those spontaneous productions.