A solitary, unused to speaking of what he sees and
feels, has mental experiences which are at once more intense
and less articulate than those of a gregarious man. They
are sluggish, yet more wayward, and never without a melancholy
tinge. Sights and impressions which others brush aside with a
glance, a light comment, a smile, occupy him more than
their due; they sink silently in, they take on meaning,
they become experience, emotion, adventure. Solitude gives birth to the
original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous — to poetry.
It also gives birth to the opposite: to the absurd.
Paraphrases from the novella Death in Venice by Thomas Mann.