A more private kind of writerly self-doubt sometimes afflicted him, all the same. He could not pick the book up without being thrown into creative confusion. ‘For my part,7 I do not judge the value of any other work less clearly than my own; and I place the Essays now low, now high, very inconsistently and uncertainly.’ Each time he read his own words, this mixture of feelings would assail him – and further thoughts would well up, so out would come his pen again.
