David Lindsay is an ideologist rather than a philosopher, as the reader will be quick to notice. If it is the invention, the exoticism and the strange that make the first impression, one soon discovers, behind these flights of fancy, a kind of thought that lacks neither richness nor interest. While his novels gravitate towards imaginary worlds, the writer's thinking, in itself, leaves the beaten track, and takes the form of intuition of a vivid intensity. All Lindsay's determination is needed to ensure that his plots adhere to the reality of this world. As a general rule, the realistic picture gives way to intimations of the hereafter.

To analyse this thinking is no easy task. The novel, as a literary form, does not always lend itself very well to the exposition of ideas. It is necessary to tell stories, to bring characters to life, to achieve verisimilitude. At worst, one will have a didactic dissertation that is incompatible with the liveliness of the story. At best, there is a fragmented narrative, with the rhythm of the adventure jarring uneasily with the rhythm of the thought. To the limits of the genre, there are added further difficulties which are linked to the quality of the experience described. If Lindsay's convictions cannot be called into question, it remains no less true that the message he tried to convey is not of the kind to which we are accustomed.