Jean Jacques Rousseau's "Confessions" is a long, muddled rigmarole, his life at its beginnings, the memorials of his youth. He is not silent about his stupidities - 'I am stupid and lacking in presence of mind, and anger instead of sharpening the little I have got deprives me of it altogether' .He follows an inviolable principle to show himself to his friends as he was, neither better nor worse. It is a truthful and detailed story of a tortured creature, battered by every kind of storm, and wearied by many years of travelling and persecution. Since his name is fated to live, he says : I must endeavor to transmit with it the memory of that unfortunate man who bore it as he actually was and not as his unjust enemies unremittingly endeavored to paint him. He presents himself as a just and good man, free from bitterness, hatred, and jealousy, quick to realize when he was in the wrong, even quicker to excuse the injustices of others, seeking happiness always, with virginal timidity and bashfulness, in the gentle emotion of loving, and behaving on all occasions with a sincerity verging upon rashness and with a disinterestedness that was almost past belief. He was a man of extreme sensibilities, he admits : My cruel imagination, which ceaselessly torments itself by foreseeing evils before they arise, interferes with my memory and prevents my recalling them once they are past. In a way I exhaust my misfortunes in advance. The more I suffer in anticipation, the easier I find it to forget. Botany is a passion with him - he would water his well-loved walnut tree with his tears. 'My function is to tell the truth, not to make people believe it'. He revels in the constant enjoyment of the present, his heart still fresh gives itself to everything with the joy of a child, or rather the rapture of an angel, his alarm at the fall of a leaf or the fluttering of a bird, signs of a surfeit of happiness. He confides he can only meditate when he is walking, when he stops, he ceases to think his mind only walks with his legs.In all matters constraint and compulsion are unbearable to him, they would make him dislike even pleasure. When he drops a bunch of cherries into Mlle Galley's bosom, both of them laugh out and he says to himself : Why are not my lips cherries ? He at times wonders if he is so unlike himself that he might be taken for someone else of an entirely opposite character. Once he has written a thing down, he entirely ceases to remember it. I wonder if he entirely ceased to remember his 'Confessions'.