In this matter of giving annoyance, a formula should be drawn up and
accepted, after the manner of Robespierre: the liberty of annoying
another begins where his liberty of annoying you leaves off.
I understand very well that there may be persons who believe that their
lives are wholly exemplary, and who thus burn with ardour to talk about
them. But I have not led an exemplary life to any such extent. I have
not led a life that might be called pedagogic, because it is fitted to
serve as a model, nor a life that might be called anti-pedagogic,
because it would serve as a warning. Neither do I bring a fistful of
truths in my hand, to scatter broadcast. What, then, have I to say? And
why do I write about myself? Assuredly, to no useful purpose.
The owner of a house is sometimes asked:
"Is there anything much locked up in that room?"
"No, nothing but old rubbish," he replies promptly.
But one day the owner opens the room, and then he finds a great store of
things which he had not remembered, all of them covered with dust; so he
hauls them out and generally they prove to be of no service at all. This
is precisely what I have done.
These pages, indeed, are a spontaneous exudation. But are they sincere?
Absolutely sincere? It is not very probable.
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