Sep 16, Geoff rated it it was amazing Shelves: infinite-books , favorites. These pages contain a Universe, by which I mean a mind building things with language, and you, dear reader, are invited to navigate. Raise the masts! Aim the bowsprit directly into the heart of the day! View all 18 comments. View all 33 comments. Dec 19, Lizzy rated it it was amazing Shelves: stars-5 , classics-literay-fiction , nonfiction , favorites-of-all-times , read Everyone looks in front of him; as for me; I look inside myself; I have no business but with myself, I take stock of myself, I taste myself… I roll about in myself.
The Complete Essays covers all kind of subjects and it is an almost eternal work in progress for me.
- The Complete Essays by Michel de Montaigne.
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It honestly deals with humanity itself. Montaigne is entertaining, compelling, and inclined to digression. I read Montaigne at indiscriminate ti "I turn my gaze inward, I fix it there and keep it busy.
More Books by Michel de Montaigne
I read Montaigne at indiscriminate times and places, and under disparate moods. If I am depressed, I look for something in it that might help me get back on my feet and keep going; if I am happy, I search for companionship. And I am often awed by him, how easy he seems. It is, for me, an ever ending source of inspiration and of pleasure. There are periods, it is true, that I forget about it altogether; but eventually I will go back and scan through its chapters looking for themes that grant me some moments of delight. At times I read Montaigne just for thirty minutes or one hour, but never for too long for I know I will get back to it eventually.
Ah, he also surprises me. I enjoyed his thoughts about women's rank in society, a puzzling mix of traditionalism and advanced-thinking, considering he lived in the 16th century: "Women are not altogether in the wrong, when they refuse the rules of life prescribed to the World, for so much as only men have established them without their consent. View all 20 comments. There is sheer joy for me in that sentence. It opens up a new starting point in life, not one of humility but of humour. There is basic honesty about one's own ridiculousness, but also an honesty about the validity and value of one's own experience and life, as clumsy and awkward as this may be.
The honesty and directness about his ow " To learn that one has said or done a foolish thing, that is nothing; one must learn that one is nothing but a fool, a much more comprehensive and important lesson ". The honesty and directness about his own life can make reading Montaigne like settling down and listening to an old friend talk, about how he started off preferring white wine, grew over the years to prefer red and then some time later drifted back to white again, or about how he managed to trick a friend on his wedding night so he could overcome his fear of being unable to perform and consummate the marriage or how as he has grown older he has taken to wearing thicker and heavier hats to keep his head warm.
It allows a for a remarkably intimate connection with somebody from a very different time. The material is varied, the subject of the essay, like many a students' first attempts, simply a jumping off point for a long ramble interrupted by quotations. Over the years as he continues to write the essays become more confident and frequently longer, but they are bound together by his way of thinking about himself and his society.
A way of thinking that often turns back to thinking about thinking in the broadest sense as in "when I am playing with my cat, how do I know she is not playing with me". This can give the sense that he is looking in on his society as a stranger. For example in his contrast between the crowds of people eager to see the savage cannibals brought over from Brazil with savagery of the ongoing wars of religion in his native France.
Possibly this is not so surprising as we learn in another essay that his Father had him brought up by a German teacher of Latin with the intention that Latin should be his first language view spoiler [If his wet-nurse was not involved in this Gascon may have been the first language he was actually exposed to hide spoiler ]. The result of Montaigne's Father's decision was that his family, their retainers and tenants all had to themselves to learn at least some Latin in order to talk to the young Montaigne as a child.
The impression is that he grew up as a foreigner in his own country. This of course could come across as tragic but the effect is comic. Montaigne notes the peasants in his area are still using Latin names for tools, it is as though Montaigne's father involved them all in a great game, on the basis of a singular educational notion, that are all still playing years later. Something of this playfulness matures in the son into an openness that allows him to see the peculiarity of his own point of view and to appreciate how far it is shaped by where he happens to stand.
View all 21 comments. View all 12 comments. Clive James says somewhere that certain people throughout history are like ambassadors from the present stationed in the past: though separated from us by centuries, to read them is to share in thoughts and feelings that we recognise intimately as our own.
And this is what Montaigne has been for me since I started reading him several years ago. He is the first person in history who strikes me as modern — or at least, the first to put that modern sense of uncertainty and existential nerviness dow Clive James says somewhere that certain people throughout history are like ambassadors from the present stationed in the past: though separated from us by centuries, to read them is to share in thoughts and feelings that we recognise intimately as our own. He is the first person in history who strikes me as modern — or at least, the first to put that modern sense of uncertainty and existential nerviness down on paper, to write something that is not didactic or improving or even purely entertaining, but animated instead by curiosity, doubt, overeducated boredom, trivial irritations.
He doesn't bluster his way through his lack of knowledge, but faces it head-on with disarming cheerfulness, and his arguments themselves are not carefully structured means to approach knowledge, but rather meandering and conversational in a way that is completely unlike other writers of the time. Les fantasies de la musique sont conduictes par art, les miennes par sort. To write bookes without learning is it not to make a wall without stone or such like thing?
Conceits of musicke are directed by arte, mine by hap. It's unlikely to worry any of his readers. The range of topics addressed by Montaigne is gloriously all-encompassing: stick a pin in the nearest encyclopaedia and he will have something to say on whatever subject has been thus perforated. And crucially, it's not just the big subjects like war, religion, diplomacy, the Classical tradition. It's also the minor stuff, the kind of things that you worry about in the bath — how annoying it is to have to get up early, whether people should talk over dinner or just shut up and eat, what to wear in bed.
Like men through history, he frets that he can't last long enough during sex and that his cock is too small — but unlike Horace or the Earl of Rochester, he doesn't write grandiose poetry on the subject, he just moans about it in humdrum, day-to-day prose.
You come to realise there is no issue he won't write about. Of course that frankness, that ruthless self-analysis, means that when he does come to the big subjects he's often totally riveting. I loved reading his thoughts on religion, which are incredibly undogmatic and open-minded given the context of sixteenth-century Europe. In Book II, chapter 12 — one of the longest essays and often printed separately — he ostensibly sets out to defend Christianity, but in his clear-sighted assessment of the arguments against religion he articulates intelligent agnosticism better than many atheists.
Following his mind through these arguments is quite a thrill. He also comments on current events, of all kinds. After France adopts the Gregorian calendar in December , he takes the time to write irritably on the missing eleven days a circumstance which leads him, via a typically Montanian series of tangents, to end up discussing the merits of sex with the disabled. And his thoughts on the Spanish conquest of the Americas — the full details of which were still then emerging — make for a welcome reminder that not everyone at the time was gung-ho about the excesses of the colonial project.
Who ever raised the service of marchandize and benefit of traffick to so high a rate? So many goodly citties ransacked and raged; so many nations destroyed and made desolate; so infinite millions of harmelesse people of all sexes, states and ages, massacred, ravaged and put to the sword; and the richest, the fairest and the best part of the world topsiturvied, ruined and defaced for the traffick of Pearles and Pepper. Oh mechanicall victories, oh base conquest. Never did greedy revenge, publik wrongs or generall enmities, so moodily enrage and so passionately incense men against men, unto so horrible hostilities, bloody dissipation, and miserable calamities.
On gender relations he offers an intriguing mix of traditionalism and forward-thinking. He makes frequent off-hand remarks about the place of women which seem to suggest that he is pretty representative of his time — commenting, for instance, that if women want to read they should confine themselves to theology and a little poetry — but then at other times he can be amazingly progressive. His sympathy for those who do not fit patriarchal expectations shows that he grasps the fundamental point: Les femmes n'ont pas tort du tout quand elles refusent les reigles de vie qui sont introduites au monde, d'autant que ce sont les hommes qui les ont faictes sans elles.
Women are not altogether in the wrong, when they refuse the rules of life prescribed to the World, forsomuch as onely men have established them without their consent. In the end, although he can't stop himself feeling instinctively that a woman's role is different from a man's, he recognises that much of this is down to social pressures, and his simple conclusion is in some ways centuries ahead of its time: les masles et femelles sont jettez en mesme moule: sauf l'institution et l'usage, la difference n'y est pas grande.
At first this was a surprise to me as I flicked between them, but it's a good illustration of the fact that English has changed a lot more in four hundred years than French has. Many were the times that I turned to the Middle French to illuminate what seemed an obscure passage in my native language. It's only when you read the original — c'est assez de tramper nos plumes en ancre, sans les tramper en sang — that you realise Florio's first comma is the fulcrum on which two perfectly-balanced halves of the sentence pivot.
Take another look at the very end of that quote on the conquest of Mexico, above. Pour le destruire, on cerche un champ spacieux en pleine lumiere; pour le construire, on se musse dans un creux tenebreux et contraint. Each one avoideth to see a man borne, but all runne hastily to see him dye. To destroy him we seeke a spacious field and a full light, but to construct him we hide our selves in some darke corner and worke as close as we may. It is our dutie to conceale our selves in making him; it is our glory, and the originall of many vertues to destroy him being framed.
The French is precisely assembled, and Florio ignores the precision entirely. Where Montaigne is a Rolls-Royce engine, Florio is a cartoon jetpack. And yet! Where Florio fails to capture his source is precisely where he best represents the allusive, poly-synonymous essence of his own native tradition. Well, I won't push that any further, and Montaigne himself would doubtless have disagreed.
There is no age but saith as much of hirs. For those curious about Florio, the NYRB has published a selection of his versions of the Essays under the intensely irritating title of Shakespeare's Montaigne , though neither Montaigne nor Florio need Shakespeare's coat-tails to ride on — and anyway, apart from one famous bit in The Tempest , the evidence for Shakespeare's having read Florio is not very exciting. In the end though, whatever language you read Montaigne in, his humaneness and his sympathy will stay with you.
By the time he writes the final volume he is at the end of his life, and his tone has not become bitter or regretful in the least. Everywhere he shows a desire to find a middle way between the intellectual and the physical, the elevated and the practical, which I find extremely cheering. He invented an entire genre, but no one has achieved greater effects with it than he did himself. C'est non seulement la fondamentale mais la plus illustre de vos occupations…. Avez vous sceu mediter et manier vostre vie?
Pour se montrer et exploicter nature n'a que faire de fortune: elle se montre egallement en tous estages et derriere, comme sans rideau.
Essays of Michel De Montaigne - PDF Free Download
Hee hath passed his life in idleness, say we; alas! I have done nothing this day. What, have you not lived? It is not only the fundamentall, but the noblest of your occupation. For a man to shew and exploit himselfe nature hath no neede of fortune; she equally shewes herselfe upon all grounds, in all sutes, before and behinde, as it were without curteines, welt, or gard. Have you knowne how to compose your manners? Have you knowne how to take rest? View all 30 comments. May 30, Roy Lotz rated it it was amazing Shelves: highly-recommended-favorites , prose-style , person-of-letters , francophilia.
It would have to be. But here Montaigne managed to do something that has eluded the greatest of our modern science: to preserve a complete likeness of a person. Mo e'ssay. Montaigne lives and breathes in these pages, just as much as he would if he'd been cryogentically frozen and brought back to life before your eyes. Working your way through this book is a little like starting a relationship.
But eventually the exhilaration wears off. You begin looking for other books, missing the thrill of first love. But what Montaigne lacks in bells and whistles, he more than compensates for with his constant companionship. You learn about the intimacies of his eating habits and bowel movements, his philosophy of sex as well as science, his opinion on doctors and horsemanship. He lets it all hang out. And after a long and stressful day, you know Montaigne will be waiting on your bedside table to tell you a funny anecdote, to have easygoing conversation, or to just pass the time.
This book took me a grand total of six months to read. I would dip into it right before bed—just a few pages. Sometimes, I tried to spend more time on the essays, but I soon gave it up. He has no attention span for longwinded arguments or extended exposition. As a result, whenever I tried to spend an hour on his writing, I got bored. Plus, burning your way through this book would ruin the experience of it. This is a very perceptive comment. For me, there was something quasi-religious in the ritual of reading a few pages of this book right before bed—night after night after night.
For everything Montaigne lacks in intelligence, patience, diligence, and humility, he makes up for with his exquisite sanity. I can find no other word to describe it. Dipping into his writing is like dipping a bucket into a deep well of pure, blissful sanity. Montaigne makes the pursuit of living a reasonable life into high art. For Montaigne, self-knowledge is the key to knowledge of the human condition. Montaigne is a Skeptic one moment, an Epicurean another, a Stoic still another, and finally a Christian.
You may take pride in a definition of yourself—a communist, a musician, a vegan—but no simple label ever comes close to pinning down the chaotic stream that is human life. We hold certain principles near and dear one moment, and five minutes later these principles are forgotten with the smell of lunch. The most dangerous people, it seems, are those that do try to totalize themselves under one heading or one creed. How do you reason with a person like that? Now I can move on to another bedside book. But if I ever feel myself drifting towards radicalism, extremism, or if I start to think abstract arguments are more important than the real stuff of human life, I will return to my old friend Montaigne.
This is a book that could last you a lifetime. View all 17 comments. Tonight, all across America, tens of thousands of teenagers - perhaps hundreds of thousands - sit in front of laptops, writing essays. It is the most dreaded homework assignment for many of them, and if they go on to college, it will be the assignment most cited as making them lose sleep, their printer to break, their grandmother to die, their car to break down, etc. Tonight, all across America, tens of thousands of teachers and professors count and recount the remaining essays in their grad Tonight, all across America, tens of thousands of teenagers - perhaps hundreds of thousands - sit in front of laptops, writing essays.
Tonight, all across America, tens of thousands of teachers and professors count and recount the remaining essays in their grading pile. It is their most dreaded teaching activity. It is painstaking. It is grammar. It is word by word. In , Michel de Montaigne, the world's first essayist and self-acknowledged inventor of the genre, set out to "attempt. He did not know, nor did he care whether he succeeded.
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He wanted only to write to understand himself better. And who better to do it? As he writes, he is the world's greatest expert on the subject! And there is no subject more important to him! And so, he isn't bothered if his essay on experience turns into an essay on farting. Farting is experience, after all! And he will also write what his mustache smells like, and that he likes scratching the insides of his ears, and that we say bless you after we sneeze because the air is coming out of our heads, not our butts and he'll write, don't laugh!
I read it in Socrates! He needs the high of books and the low of lived bodily experience to express himself - and the goal here is to express himself and to understand himself. There is no other goal. He is not practicing his grammar or making a logical argument or finding three examples of imagery in Ovid. It's just an attempt. Compare to the hamburger essays that we force down our childrens' throats these days the standardized 5-paragraph essay is sometimes even called the hamburger essay - it's got bread fluff! We say this hamburger should look like these hamburgers.
Say the same thing at the beginning and the end - do not attempt anything. Nothing should change. Nothing is tried, tested. Everything should be so logical, correct. Do not explore. Just do these three things. Do them again and again, and most importantly, do them like this on the test. It saddens me to see this form die at the hands of standardized testing.
To attempt to write about ones experiences or things one has read - with no expectations, except the expectation of a journey through the mind, where one may bump into all sorts of wonders and miraculous objects and familiar or unfamiliar skeletons. But no. Sorry kids - hamburgers for everyone!
View 1 comment. Apr 19, Julia rated it it was amazing Shelves: on-pause. I kind of half jokingly refer to this book as "the introverts bible". Certainly a must read, especially for those of us who live a more contemplative life. The Essays are moving and funny, edifying, and at times very sad.
Montaigne's observations range from the very specific and particular to the huge and universal. I don't always agree with what he says, but I am engaged nonetheless. I feel as I read this book that I'm always in conversation with him. I know I will be reading and re-reading The I kind of half jokingly refer to this book as "the introverts bible". I know I will be reading and re-reading The Essays throughout the course of my whole life. I know that my understanding for them will deepen and change.
The Complete Essays
Montaigne himself continued to edit the essays until his death. This sort of journey is much of what the book is about It is wholly accessible while at the same time maintaining the humor and beauty of Montaigne's words. View all 9 comments. View all 6 comments. Dec 07, Szplug rated it it was amazing. Montaigne is one of my all-time favorite dudes - truly a bridge between eras and endowed with enough sagacity and wisdom to guide a nation. Wonderful and warm humanity and sparklingly sere humor, but he can chuck 'em, too: a handful of quiet paragraphs from his essays on Liars and Cowards scorches the flesh from deceitful bones and craven limbs.
Thanks to a screw-up by the company I ordered Screech's translation from I received two copies - one for my desk at the office, one for the table beside Montaigne is one of my all-time favorite dudes - truly a bridge between eras and endowed with enough sagacity and wisdom to guide a nation.
Thanks to a screw-up by the company I ordered Screech's translation from I received two copies - one for my desk at the office, one for the table beside my bed at home. At work or at rest, Montaigne leads you true. BTW - if the entire collection of essays seems too daunting a challenge, or too heavy to comfortably hold, there's an abridgement with an outstandingly smooth and literary translation by J. Cohen - perhaps more elegant than Screech's, more suave, but with all the edges sanded and hence less true to le Gros Guyennoise.
View all 7 comments. Que mais precisam que de viver amadas e honradas? View all 19 comments. La propia lengua ha evolucionado enormemente creando nuevas palabras y nuevos significados y conceptos. View all 3 comments. Jun 06, Florencia marked it as to-read Shelves: philosophyland , french , non-fiction , politics , if-only-i-were-a-cat. A Montaigne essay a day keeps the doctor away. BOOK I 1. Chi puo dir com'egli arde e in picciol fuoco — [He who can describe how his heart is ablaze is burning on a small pyre] Petrarch, Sonnet Our emotions get carried away beyond us 4.
How the soul discharges its emotions against false objects when lacking real ones 5. Whether the A Montaigne essay a day keeps the doctor away. Whether the governor of a besieged fortress should go out and parley 6. The hour of parleying is dangerous 7. That our deeds are judged by the intention 8. Variam semper dant otia mentis [Idleness always produces fickle changes of mind] Lucan, Pharsalia, IV, On prognostications On constancy Ceremonial at the meeting of kings That the taste of good and evil things depends in large part on the opinion we have of them One is punished for stubbornly defending a fort without a good reason On punishing cowardice The doings of certain ambassadors On fear That we should not be deemed happy till after our death To philosophize is to learn how to die On the power of the imagination On habit: and on never easily changing a traditional law Same design: differing outcomes On educating children That it is madness to judge the true and the false from our own capacities On affectionate relationships On moderation On the Cannibals Something lacking in our civil administrations On the custom of wearing clothing On Cato the Younger How we weep and laugh at the same thing Reflections upon Cicero On the inequality there is between us On sumptuary laws On the Battle of Dreux On names On the uncertainty of our judgement On war-horses On ancient customs On Democritus and Heraclitus On the vanity of words On the frugality of the Ancients On vain cunning devices On smells On prayer On the inconstancy of our actions 2.
On drunkenness 3. A custom of the Isle of Cea 4. On conscience 6. On practice 7. On rewards for honour 8. On the affection of fathers for their children 9. On the armour of the Parthians On books On cruelty An apology for Raymond Sebond How our mind tangles itself up That difficulty increases desire On glory On presumption On giving the lie On freedom of conscience We can savour nothing pure Against indolence On bad means to a good end On the greatness of Rome On not pretending to be ill On thumbs On cowardice, the mother of cruelty There is a season for everything On virtue On a monster-child On anger I admit to tweaking a few of the English quotes, in the spirit of competition and interpretation.
You could call them the autobiography of a mind, but they made no claim to composing the narrative of a life, only of the shifting preoccupations of their protagonist in an ongoing conversation with the Greek and Roman writers on his library shelves—and, of course, with himself. In fact, he went to the best parties in the neighborhood. He corresponded with beautiful, educated women who read his drafts. But he never forswore women or, for that matter, the thrill of watching a good battle, or any of the other indulgences of his class.
He left his tower in for a year of travelling. Two years later, he agreed to a second term. And if Montaigne did not take sides in those wars, it may be that he thought of them as a family matter, which in a way they were. Authors are, of course, sneaky. His evasions are legendary.
He writes a great deal about the tyranny of laws but nothing about his fourteen years as a magistrate or his four years as a mayor, or even about his response, as mayor, to the plague that struck Bordeaux toward the end of his second term, leaving a third of the population dead.
He fled. Montaigne, at the time, was thirty-two and, he says, ready to be a dutiful and respectful husband. As for his mother, he alludes to her twice, but only in passing. Her name was Antoinette Louppes de Villeneuve. She came from a far-flung merchant clan, similar to the Montaignes in wealth and influence, but with the notable exception that, while the Montaignes were then solidly and safely Catholic, some of the Louppes were Protestant, and the family themselves were Sephardic conversos from Saragossa, where their name was Lopez de Villanueva.
She arrived at the castle a reluctant bride of sixteen, to marry Pierre Eyquem, an eccentric but apparently exemplary chatelain and a future mayor of Bordeaux himself , and, once having settled her duty to her children by bearing them, she was attached mainly to herself. For him, the subject of Protestants and Jews who had been barred from practicing their religion in France since the end of the fourteenth century seems to have been, at most, food for his meditations on the absurdities of persecution and the fatal distractions of disharmony.
But, when it came to seeing an old Jew herded naked through the streets of Rome, he remained a reporter—curious, compassionate, but not particularly disturbed. He did not expect much better from the world. Relatives, to his mind, were accidents of birth, consideration, and proximity. The genealogy that interested him was the genealogy of thought. He was far more interested in thinking about religion with the Sophists and Skeptics in his library than he was in the part that religion, even his own Catholicism, played in him. For all that, he was a passionate traveller.
His search for the spa that would cure his kidney stones—the disease had killed his father and would eventually help kill him—took him to Switzerland, Austria, and Germany. His love of the classics took him to Italy. He prowled the ghetto, visiting a synagogue, watching a circumcision, and happily cross-examining the rabbi. By the end of his visit he had met the Pope and was made an honorary Roman citizen. Today, we would call him a gentleman ethnographer, more enchanted than alarmed by the bewildering variety of human practices.
The only things I find rewarding if anything is are variety and the enjoyment of diversity. When did we ever write so much as since the beginning of our Civil Wars?
And whenever did the Romans do so as just before their collapse? The words I utter when wretched are words of defiance. It is difficult to found a judgment on him which is steady and uniform. Now, in a way, he both honors and discards them, along with their cluttering truths, their most congenial wisdom, and the deceptive comfort they sometimes bring. I loathe poverty on a par with pain. But I am made otherwise: death is the same for me anywhere.
If I were allowed to choose I would, I think, prefer to die in the saddle rather than in my bed, away from home and far from my own folk.