I'm approaching the half-way point in the re-read of Rousseau's Confessions.  That brings him up into his early 20s, (Circa 1730) and the tome's getting somewhat more interesting.

Frankly, the main things interesting about the first 50-60 pages didn't involve what he didn't have to confess, so much as the descriptions of his travels, his experiences as an engraving apprentice who committed the criminal offense of running away after a series of severe beatings by the journeyman he was apprenticed to.

But, insofar as his early childhood and even later, he didn't wrong severely enough to make any of his confessions minutely interesting.  He was a good kid.  Too good.

Part of what kept me reading through that involved seeing a man in his '60s, whom I'd have thrown rocks at as a kid, reflecting on his childhood.

I'll be writing more about Rousseau and his times, his travels, his loves, his countless follies and poignant observations that still apply to the human condition.

This entry's just to give you fair warning.

Jack