The Confessions of Jean Jacques Rousseau — Volume 01Rousseau, Jean-Jacques
Philosophy
The Confessions of Jean Jacques Rousseau — Volume 01
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques
Authors, French -- 18th century -- Biography; Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 1712-1778
My passions are extremely violent; while under their influence, nothing
can equal my impetuosity; I am an absolute stranger to discretion,
respect, fear, or decorum; rude, saucy, violent, and intrepid: no shame
can stop, no danger intimidate me. My mind is frequently so engrossed by
a single object, that beyond it the whole world is not worth a thought;
this is the enthusiasm of a moment, the next, perhaps, I am plunged in a
state of annihilation. Take me in my moments of tranquility, I am
indolence and timidity itself; a word to speak, the least trifle to
perform, appear an intolerable labor; everything alarms and terrifies me;
the very buzzing of a fly will make me shudder; I am so subdued by fear
and shame, that I would gladly shield myself from mortal view.
When obliged to exert myself, I am ignorant what to do! when forced to
speak, I am at a loss for words; and if any one looks at me, I am
instantly out of countenance. If animated with my subject, I express my
thoughts with ease, but, in ordinary conversations, I can say nothing
--absolutely nothing; and, being obliged to speak, renders them
insupportable.
I may add, that none of my predominant inclinations centre in those
pleasures which are to be purchased: money empoisons my delight; I must
have them unadulterated; I love those of the table, for instance, but
cannot endure the restraints of good company, or the intemperance of
taverns; I can enjoy them only with a friend, for alone it is equally
impossible; my imagination is then so occupied with other things, that I
find no pleasure in eating. Women who are to be purchased have no charms
for me; my beating heart cannot be satisfied without affection; it is the
same with every other enjoyment, if not truly disinterested, they are
absolutely insipid; in a word, I am fond of those things which are only
estimable to minds formed for the peculiar enjoyment of them.
I never thought money so desirable as it is usually imagined; if you
would enjoy you must transform it; and this transformation is frequently
attended with inconvenience; you must bargain, purchase, pay dear, be
badly served, and often duped. I buy an egg, am assured it is new-laid
--I find it stale; fruit in its utmost perfection--'tis absolutely green.
I love good wine, but where shall I get it? Not at my wine merchant's
--he will poison me to a certainty. I wish to be universally respected;
how shall I compass my design? I must make friends, send messages, write
letters, come, go, wait, and be frequently deceived. Money is the
perpetual source of uneasiness; I fear it more than I love good wine.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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