My Review of Life, Letters, and Epicurean Philosophy of Ninon de L’Enclos
I spent two months with this book, and what a ride it was. I loved it so much I purchased a reproduction hardcover-copy from Kissinger books—a facsimile scan.
At first, I honestly wouldn’t have recommended it. The opening “biography” section isn’t the letters I thought I was getting — instead, it’s a puritanical 19th-century author’s endless moralizing about Ninon. His whole view of her boils down to: “she’s a whore with a heart of gold” — and he doesn’t let you forget it. Page after page, it’s the same contradiction: she’s progressive for her time, brilliant, witty, independent… but oh, she still slept with men. He even opens by saying he admires her, but that she made “questionable choices.” No kidding. It reads like he has a personal vendetta against Christianity, women’s freedom, or both. I almost put the book down at this point — the moralizing frustrated me so much I kept asking, where are the letters I was promised? But I’m glad I pushed through, because the treasure lies ahead.
But once you slog past that, the real meat of the book begins: the letters. These are where Ninon comes alive. Her correspondence with the young Marquis is witty, biting, and brutally honest. She guides him through the labyrinth of love and shows how men and women toy with each other, deceive each other, and eventually move on once passion fades. Cruel? Yes. But also timeless. Read in 2025 through a Machiavellian lens instead of a romantic one, it’s dead-on about why people fall in and out of love, and why clinging to someone after the spark dies only poisons both of you.
Then come the letters with Saint-Évremond. They’re trickier — some might be forgeries — but they still have nuggets of gold, especially his thoughts on why marriage so often fails. Their friendship, their wit, their tenderness in old age gave me moments that genuinely hit me in the chest. One of the last letters made me cry. There’s a strange beauty in watching two sharp, aging minds still playing the game of words while staring death in the face.
The final section ties it all together with Epicurean philosophy, mostly through Saint-Évremond’s voice. It’s simple, elegant, and practical: enjoy pleasure in moderation, avoid the kinds that leave you anxious or regretful, and never seek enjoyment at the expense of others. That hit me hard, because it’s still true. Epicurus wasn’t a hedonist the way people paint him; he was about balance, peace, and living without chains.
So, my verdict? The biography at the start is frustrating and moralizing, but once you get to Ninon’s actual words, the book is worth every page. It’s a wild, melancholy, witty, and strangely comforting trip into love, friendship, aging, and pleasure — and it holds up better than most books written today.