In the last two years of his life, embittered and paranoid, Jean-Jacques Rousseau embarked on a writing project for himself alone: ten essays that record the thoughts that occurred to him as he strolled through the outskirts of Paris, Reveries of the Solitary Walker
I have to say: was underwhelmed by the Reveries (despite all the hype about them). He came across as too sensitive and self-obsessed. Generally against such readings but in his case you do wonder if it has something to do with his sexuality.
The journals I did love, though, were Agnes Martin's Writings and A. Truitt's Yield. Florida-S. Maxwell's Measure of my Days wasn't quite a journal but superb nevertheless.
Sorry, completely forgot! Cheever's journals are fab as well. Anyone who starts off with this was bound to have me hooked:
"In middle age there is mystery, there is mystification. The most I can make out of this hour is a kind of loneliness. Even the beauty of the visible world seems to crumble, yes, even love. I feel that there has been some miscarriage, some wrong turning but I do not know when it took place, and I have no hope of finding it."
The Buddhist thinker Śāntideva begins his masterwork by saying "Nothing new is said here, nor do I have skill at putting to together. Therefore I don't think of it for the purpose of others; I have done it to perfume my own mind. It helps increase my inclination to be good. If another with the same humours as me sees it, it could be useful."
What he's expressing feels very familiar to me, and it sounds like it's familiar to you too. When people express surprise at how often I write on my blog, I tell them it's just the tip of the iceberg: there are many, many journals that I don't expect anyone to see. Most of my writing is for me and me alone. If I somehow happen to get famous enough that people care about my unpublished writing, I can share it and they'll have tens of thousands of pages to work with. But that's not the point.
This is a fantastic piece. I really enjoyed it. I especially appreciate the line about the inverse of a ghost…a spirit you’ve left behind. Gorgeous.
I have to say: was underwhelmed by the Reveries (despite all the hype about them). He came across as too sensitive and self-obsessed. Generally against such readings but in his case you do wonder if it has something to do with his sexuality.
The journals I did love, though, were Agnes Martin's Writings and A. Truitt's Yield. Florida-S. Maxwell's Measure of my Days wasn't quite a journal but superb nevertheless.
Happy New Year, Kieran!
Rousseau definitely has an ego; when he writes about amour-propre, he knows whereof he speaks. Will check out the books you recommend. Happy new year!
Sorry, completely forgot! Cheever's journals are fab as well. Anyone who starts off with this was bound to have me hooked:
"In middle age there is mystery, there is mystification. The most I can make out of this hour is a kind of loneliness. Even the beauty of the visible world seems to crumble, yes, even love. I feel that there has been some miscarriage, some wrong turning but I do not know when it took place, and I have no hope of finding it."
The Buddhist thinker Śāntideva begins his masterwork by saying "Nothing new is said here, nor do I have skill at putting to together. Therefore I don't think of it for the purpose of others; I have done it to perfume my own mind. It helps increase my inclination to be good. If another with the same humours as me sees it, it could be useful."
What he's expressing feels very familiar to me, and it sounds like it's familiar to you too. When people express surprise at how often I write on my blog, I tell them it's just the tip of the iceberg: there are many, many journals that I don't expect anyone to see. Most of my writing is for me and me alone. If I somehow happen to get famous enough that people care about my unpublished writing, I can share it and they'll have tens of thousands of pages to work with. But that's not the point.