Younger men of the most various type, from Morellet down to Joubert, men quite competent to detect mere bombast or ardent vagueness, were held captive by the cogency of his understanding.

His writings have none of this compulsion.
We see the flame, but through a veil of interfused smoke.

The expression is not obscure, but it is awkward; not exactly prolix, but heavy, overcharged, and opaque.

We miss the vivid precision and the high spirits of Voltaire, the glow and the brooding sonorousness of Rousseau, the pomp of Buffon.

To Diderot we go not for charm of style, but for a store of fertile ideas, for some striking studies of human life, and for a vigorous and singular personality.
Diderot's knowledge of our language now did him good service.