- Paperback: 144 pages
- Publisher: Hesperus Press Ltd (7 May 2003)
- Language: English
- ISBN-10: 1843910403
- ISBN-13: 978-1843910404
- Product Dimensions: 11.7 x 1 x 19.3 cm
- Amazon Bestsellers Rank: 611,960 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- See Complete Table of Contents
Memoirs of an Egotist (Hesperus Classics) Paperback – 7 May 2003
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'''On arriving in a town I always ask: 1. Which are the 12 prettiest women; 2. Which are the 12 richest men; 3. Which is the man who could get me hanged.'' It is hard not to like someone who could write something like that. There may be a bit of self-serving bravado in it, or it may even be no more than a delicious, bite-sized mendacity, but to read it is to be brought close alongside a character who may very well need to know the answer to (3) as a result of some appalling clash between the answers to (1) and (2). It is also a sorry reflection on our own characters. One can imagine a contemporary writer, in the same shoes, asking nothing more exciting than where the best cheap restaurant is to be found.' --The Guardian
From the Back Cover
'If this book is boring, in two years' time it will be wrapping up butter at the grocers; if it's not boring, people will see that egotism, so long as its sincere, is one way of depicting this human heart 'See all Product Description
Most Helpful Customer Reviews on Amazon.com (beta)
"Memoirs..." could have been written this morning. Being an autobiographical sketch, and striving for sincerity (as he says himself several times), it is a different kind of book. Stendhal doesn't attach himself to any literary convention and lets the pen run free. In the beginning he tells how he wanted to write a work of fiction but since he was being constantly interrupted by the routine duties of his job (he was a great slacker, anyway), he decided to write about things that happened to him instead of inventing.
There are too many interesting things in this thin volume to enumerate them all. Here we find the statement that could be put at the front of his complete works: "I don't think men are wicked; I regard them as machines impelled, In France, by vanity; elsewhere, by all the passions, vanity included".
Humor, or rather "wit" (as he would prefer), permeates everything, even the narration of his darkest moments: "I left Milan for Paris on the ** June 1821, with a sum of 3,500, I think, and convinced that my sole happiness lay in blowing my brains out when I'd run through this sum". Of course he didn't. Because of sheer curiosity, on one hand, and on the other because he was "also afraid of hurting myself".
He describes in detail his failure in bed with a young woman, a failure that earned him the reputation of being "impotent" all around Paris. He has the gift of making you understand situations with an amazing economy of words. Same thing when he describes certain characters of the time, like the Commander in Chief of the French Army who, "while waiting for great actions, which do not present themselves every day, and for the opportunity to squeeze the skirts of young women, which only ever really comes along at half-past midnight, as they are leaving, M. de La Fayette would explain rather inelegantly the commonplace philosophy of the National Guard".
There are many comic and adventurous interludes, like his dangerous expedition into London's poorest suburbs in search of a certain house of "dates", or when he tells how at Calais he talked cheerfully ("and almost drunk on English beer") with a British sailor who made a few objections to his stories. A couple of days later one of his traveling companions told him "in measured tones" that the sailor had, in reality, skillfully insulted him and France, without his noticing. "For two days we looked for the English captain in all the filthy taverns that those sort of people frequent" to challenge him to a duel. They never found him.
Overlooking the book is the shadow of Métilde, the woman who rejected Stendhal's advances. In a way, he writes to keep her memory at bay. But her name crawls up here and there.
Although the work was left unfinished (in respect to what the author declared he set out to do) it doesn't feel that way because it follows the crisscross patterns of memory (prefiguring Proust, who was an attentive reader of Stendhal). It is as if a friendly stranger popped in at a party, sat down by your side, told you a few stories and left after murmuring, like Stendhal: "The heat is stopping me having ideas at half-past one".