and that emotional experience is worth the price of some animalism.
Still more perniciously it might induce one to believe that a man
may have a deep sense of religion side by side with an unbridled
sensuality, and that one whose life is morally infamous may yet be
able to quicken the moral temperature of great nations.

Some of the critics of Rousseau speak as though a man whose moral
code was so loose, and whose practice was so libidinous, ought
almost to have held his tongue on matters of high moral import. But
this is a very false line of argument. A man may see a truth
clearly, even if he cannot practise it; and an affirmation of a
passionate belief in virtue is emphasised and accentuated when it
comes from the lips of one who might be tempted rather to excuse
his faults by preaching the irresistible character of evil.

To any one who reads wisely, and not in a censorious and
Pharisaical spirit, this sordid record, which is yet interspersed
with things so fragrant and beautiful, may have a sobering and
uplifting effect. One sees a man hampered by ill-health, by a
temperament childishly greedy of momentary pleasure, by
irritability, suspicion, vanity and luxuriousness, again and again
expressing a deep belief in unselfish emotion, a passionate desire
to help struggling humanity onward, a child-like confidence in the
goodness and tenderness of the Father of all. Disgust and
admiration struggle strangely together. One cannot sympathise and
yet one dare not condemn. One feels a horrible suspicion that there
are dark and slimy corners, vile secrets. ugly memories, in the
minds of hundreds of seemingly respectable people; the book brings
one face to face with the mystery of evil; and yet through the
gloom there steals a silvery radiance, a far-off hope, an infinite