While rereading these notes, I became convinced of the sincerity of the man who so pitilessly displayed his own weaknesses and vices. The story of a human soul, even the meanest of souls, is perhaps more curious and useful than the story of an entire nation, especially when it is the result of self-examination by a mature mind and when it is written without the vain desire to arouse sympathy or amazement. Rousseau’s Confessions have the failing that he read them to his friends.
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