The Confessions of an English Opium-Eater [antikvár]

INTRODUCTION It may be said without hesitation that there is no foim of literature more certain to pique the curiosity of a reader than the form known as Confessions. As the world grows older, it seems that amateurs oi the belles-lettres grow ever more inclined to give in their adherence to Pope's dictum that the proper study of mankind is man. And hence volumes of Memoirs, of Reminiscences, ever more and more abound. But if Autobiography be a more intimate or sustained form of reminiscence, then, in their turn, Confessions are the quintessence of autobiography. For the term implies nothing less than the receiving of a reader into the writer's closest confidence, than an unveiling of that writer's inner self. In a word, Confessions come as near to the bald ' human document' as considerations of the literary art allow. A volume of letters may, of course, reveal much of its writer's personality. But correspondence, after all, is conditioned, not only by the special occasion which calls it forth, but also by the character of the person to whom it is addressed. Of these conditions the writer of Confessions is independent. He writes not for the moment, but for the ages ; and addresses himself to no single limited human creature, but to that ideal reader who enjoys a subjective existence in the mind of every wielder of the goose-quill. Self-revelation, self-vindication, this is the sole animating purpose of the genuine writer of Confessions. For every volume of Confessions is, in truth, an Apologia. There are two principal ways of writing Confessions, either of them consecrated by the example of a great modern master ; and, given the necessary conditions, by either of these methods a fascinating volume may be produced. The first is that employed by Rousseau—who, beginning with a solemn adjuration addressed to the Deity, pledges himself to truth and to the whole truth.1 This method, to judge it 1 ' Que la trompette du jugement dernier sonne quand elle voudra ; je viendrai, ce livre a la main, me présenter devant le souverain juge. Je dirai hautement : voila ce que j'ai fait, ce que j'ai pensé, ce que je fus. J'ai dit le bien et le mal avec la meme franchise. Je n'ai rien tu de mauvais, rien ajouté de bon . . .' vii