Rousseau’s Confessions is really two distinct works, the first covering his childhood to his early adulthood, the second up to age fifty-three. This book has found nothing if not imitators. I suppose this sort of boastful exaggeration shouldn’t count for much after all, Milton began Paradise Lost by saying he was attempting “Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.” Nevertheless, the second part of Rousseau’s assertion, that his enterprise would “find no imitator,” is even more indisputably false than the first one. Teresa, Benvenuto Cellini, and Montaigne. Augustine’s famous autobiography, which shares the same name and ignore the works of St. Rousseau, prone to hyperbole, boldly asserts that his autobiography is without precedent. This book begins with a falsehood and only escalates from there. There are times when I am so unlike myself that I could be taken for someone else of an entirely opposite character. Running the (Full) M… on The Madrid Half-MarathonĢ023: New Year… on From Gold to Glory: A Slice of…Ģ023: New Year… on Summertime in Andalucía: Three…Ģ023: New Year… on Summertime in Andalucía: …Ģ023: New Year… on Summertime in Andalucía: Jerez… Summertime in Andalucía: Málaga and Surroundings.Summertime in Andalucía: Jerez and Cádiz.
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