Genius, you have said, is a kingdom; but what virtuous man is not afraid of being a king?
He who feels only his great powers, is--with the weaknesses and passions of our nature--preparing for great failures.

Believe me, sir, the unhappy man who wrote this book is no object of admiration or of envy; but, if you have a feeling heart, pity him!" My father, astonished at the excitement with which his companion pronounced these last words, did not know what to answer.
Just then they reached the paved road which led from Meudon Castle to that of Versailles; a carriage was passing.
The ladies who were in it perceived the old man, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and leaning out of the window repeated: "There is Jean Jacques--there is Rousseau!" Then the carriage disappeared in the distance.
My father remained motionless, confounded, and amazed, his eyes wide open, and his hands clasped.
Rousseau, who had shuddered on hearing his name spoken, turned toward him: "You see," said he, with the bitter misanthropy which his later misfortunes had produced in him, "Jean Jacques cannot even hide himself: he is an object of curiosity to some, of malignity to others, and to all he is a public thing, at which they point the finger.

It would signify less if he had only to submit to the impertinence of the idle; but, as soon as a man has had the misfortune to make himself a name, he becomes public property.

Every one rakes into his life, relates his most trivial actions, and insults his feelings; he becomes like those walls, which every passer-by may deface with some abusive writing.

Perhaps you will say that I have myself encouraged this curiosity by publishing my Confessions.