Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778)

There are some people, like that, who, upon reaching a certain age and until death take them away turn bitter, grumpy, always morose, never happy, and constantly complain about everything they can. Rousseau, here, outsmarted them all: he left his jeremiads to posterity.

Of an pretentious vanity, annoying, self-centred and portraying himself as a martyr persecuted by his contemporaries, almost paranoid, the grumpy old man here wobbles in self-pity, moans and whines.

I get it. Honestly, I do. show more Here are the musings of a man reaching the end of his life, and daring to be honest and confront it all, blah blah blah... It could have been interesting (maybe). The problem is that Rousseau is nothing but a miserable old grump. I am sorry, but, here's nothing but the 18th century version of some tart celebrity sobbing their life away on a vain TV talk show. How shallow!

Honestly: stick to his philosophical work. show less

Po nis një punë që është e pashembullt, të cilën nuk do ta imitojë askush. Dua t'u tregoj njerezve të tjerë jetën e një njeriu, pa fshehur asgjë që ka të bëjë me natyrën e tij dhe ky njeri do të jem unë. Vetëm unë. E ndiej ç'më thotë zemra dhe i njoh njerëzit. Nuk i ngjaj asnjërit nga ata që kam parë; guxoj të besoj se natyra nuk më ka bërë si ndonjë nga njerezit që ekzistojnë. Në qoftë se nuk vlej më shumë, së paku jam ndryshe nga ata. Po qe se show more natyra ka bërë mirë apo keq, duke e thyer kallëpin në të cilin më derdhi, për këtë gjë njerëzit mund të gjykojnë vetëm pasi të kenë lexuar librin tim. Le të buçasë kur të dojë trumbeta e Gjyqit të fundit, unë do të vij të paraqitem me këtë libër në dorë përpara gjykatësit sovran e do ti them me zë të lartë: "Ja çfarë kam bërë, çfërë kam menduar dhe cili kam qenë". Kam folur për të mirën dhe të keqen me të njëjtën çiltëri.

Nuk kam heshtur për asnjë gjë të keqe, nuk kam shtuar asgje të mire dhe nëse më ka ndodhur të përdor ndonjë zbukurim që nuk ngre shume peshë, këtë e kam bërë vetëm për të mbushur një zbrazëti të rastit, të shkaktuar nga harresa; mund ta kem quajtur të vërtetë atë që e dija se ishte e tillë, asnjëherë atë që e dija se ishte e rreme. E kam treguar veten time ashtu siç kam qenë të përbuzshëm dhe të poshtër kur kam qenë i këtille; të mirë, bujar, sublim kur kam qenë i atillë e kam shpalosur botën time të brendshme, ashtu siç e ke parë ti vetë. show less

Among the reasons I have enjoyed reading Rousseau's obsessively detailed, confessional autobiography is that I recognize in him a fellow book lover. Consider this quote from ""JJ": "I have lost or dismembered numbers of books through the habit of carrying them about with me everywhere, in the pigeon-house, in the garden, in the orchard, and in the vineyard. While occupied with something else, I put my book down at the foot of a tree or on a hedge ; I always forgot to take it up again, and, show more at the end of a fortnight, I frequently found it rotted away, or eaten by ants and snails. This eagerness for learning became a mania which drove me nearly stupid, so incessantly was I employed with muttering something or other to myself."

However, I cannot recongnize in myself (thankfully) thin-skinned Rousseau's small-mindedness, petulance, defeatism, and general self-defeating actions. It is somewhat amazing the the author of The Social Contract had such a bizarrely unhealthy sex life, a streak of self-abasing confessionalism, and a Tesla-like ability to confound his own financial success and security through his intellectual property.

A few things made an impact on me and will stay with me from this book:

- In Rousseau's younger years, he was one of the rootless, poor vagabonds which dotted the landscape of Europe in the early 18th Century. That lifestyle, during which Rousseau typically wrecked his own chances of betterment time and time again, of cottage industries, patronage, and latent feudalism was a fascinating part of the work which I am sure is among the earliest examples of the hyper-confessional autobiography that is not uncommon today. (Lance Armstrong, where's yours?)

- In one bizarre episode Friedrich Melchior Von Grimm, Rousseau and another man of letters stop in to visit a simpleton tween sold off by her mother as a concubine. Grimm, apparently, claimed to have only lingered in the young girl's room to make the others wait and Rousseau typical sexual encounter was an episode of weeping self-loathing. He confesses the peccadillo in his mind to his wife (five children, all dropped off at the orphanage) who forgave him and then Grimm shows up to tell on Rousseau. So, what's Rousseau's take on this? Grimm is a jerk ... no commentary on the poor young girl, the motivations of her mother, or the general behavior of his colleagues. It was all par for the course in that day and age, apparently.

- I am amazed Rousseau gives so much of his supposed enemie's correspondence, which only supports the apparent fact that Rousseau was a self-destructive, peevish whiner. show less

Rousseau wrote his memoirs in two portions, two years apart, though they are now normally published together. The first part covers from childhood to when he is a young man finding independence, and sets the template for future memoirs by other authors by its ascribing importance to influences and 'dishing the dirt' on every aspect of his life. Rousseau's excruciating effort to tell all dated back to his first writings in the 1750s when he challenged the popular view of progress and set the show more pattern for living a life which would reflect the beliefs he professed. His confessions probably offered more honesty than contemporary readers bargained for, by not shying away from topics that lay outside the bounds of polite society when it was published four years after his death. Hopefully it was not the cause of too much trouble, since he did not varnish his version of the truth about others any more than himself.

While his attempt at honesty seems earnest, he lacks some personal insight that would have helped guide his pen. He is poor at foreshadowing, often claiming such-and-such was his last moment of happiness but then describing another happy interlude; claiming a tragedy awaits on the next page, but then not really living up to its billing. He over-inflates events in his life that may have cut him to the quick but do not seem so deserving of the impact he allows them. Some faults he can't recognize or name that we know today as "middle age crisis" or "making an ass of himself", and his over-indulgence in self-pity can be very annoying in places. He is far too quick to award himself title to a uniquely noble soul, and to suspect the motives and nature of others when he would prefer to cast the blame afield. He wants again and again to be understood for his intentions rather than his words and actions, but he's not willing to extend the same grace to others.

Part two of these confessions (the latter six parts of twelve) takes a darker turn. Rousseau removes his rose-coloured glasses when inspecting the more recent years of his life and, while the tone remains the same, the content becomes that of a man defending himself against libel. At the same time some of his own darkest episodes occur here, as much a factor of his times (to judge from how cavalier he is about them) as of himself. There is the episode, for example, where he and another man adopt a girl and raise her with the intention of betraying her innocence once she comes of age. Happily they do not follow through, but this was apparently a socially acceptable plan. Similarly, he has little compunction (only excusing himself by saying he was drunk) in partaking of another man's obviously reluctant kept child in Paris. In another vein, he is defensive but sees little wrong with how he coerced his wife to give up their newborn babe to an orphanage. So little wrong, in fact, he made her do the same thing four more times with every child they had together, although he does experience guilt about it (not actual regret) later in life.

His unacknowledged faults extend to the intellectual sphere. Charged with editing the posthumous words of the Abbe de Saint-Pierre, Rousseau cannot commit to supporting the messages of a man who so firmly viewed humanity as being invested with the power of reason. Rousseau is entirely dismissive of the idea that "men are governed by their reason rather than by their passions," suggesting that the Abbe was "working only for imaginary beings." This belief goes a long way to explaining some of Rousseau's subsequent actions in his personal life and his perception of their fallout.

Rousseau's confessions were far more engaging than I'd anticipated, even through the less entertaining second half. The historic value of this memoir is undeniable, and the value of the model it set for autobiography going forward. It also establishes a basis for how readers should interpret such works. Rousseau's quest for honesty was for his readers' (and reputation's) sake, but he had too many blind spots to be successfully honest with himself. Thus it provides a textbook case of a memoir that is as significant for what it doesn't acknowledge as what it does. show less