sentimentalist nor yet in that of the curious investigator. Undoubtedly
at times it must be a most immodest "I," an "I" which discloses a name
and a surname, an "I" which is positive and self-assertive, with the
imperiousness of a Captain General's edict or a Civil Governor's decree.

I have always felt some delicacy in talking about myself, so that the
impulsion to write these pages of necessity came from without.

As I am not generally interested when anybody communicates his likes and
dislikes to me, I am of opinion that the other person most probably
shares the same feelings when I communicate mine to him. However, a time
has now arrived when it is of no consequence to me what the other person
thinks.

In this matter of giving annoyance, a formula should be drawn up and
accepted, after the manner of Robespierre: the liberty of annoying
another begins where his liberty of annoying you leaves off.

I understand very well that there may be persons who believe that their
lives are wholly exemplary, and who thus burn with ardour to talk about
them. But I have not led an exemplary life to any such extent. I have
not led a life that might be called pedagogic, because it is fitted to
serve as a model, nor a life that might be called anti-pedagogic,
because it would serve as a warning. Neither do I bring a fistful of
truths in my hand, to scatter broadcast. What, then, have I to say? And
why do I write about myself? Assuredly, to no useful purpose.

The owner of a house is sometimes asked:

"Is there anything much locked up in that room?"