Both of them fire off opinions with wild abandon, saying what feels good, without taking the trouble to thoroughly argue their points, to consider competing ideas, or even to make their own thoughts consistent. Though the two of them were brilliant in the extreme, neither of them seemed to have reached the level of intellectual maturity that allows feelings to be submitted to reasons and other perspectives to be considered. Both praise wild isolation at the expense of society because neither seemed to fit into the latter. While Thoreau’s dour and stern demeanor is not comparable to Rousseau’s sentimental imagination, the two of them are self-involved, prickly, and vain.

I see much in common between these two Romantic devotees of nature. When I am not underlining brilliant passages, I read Rousseau through gritted teeth and with frequent interruptions to roll my eyes. Though constantly impressed with the breadth of their vision and the force of their rhetoric, I find the personalities of these two men-at least as manifested in their books-to be grating and unpleasant. My reaction to Rousseau is very similar to my reaction to Thoreau, whose back-to-nature ethic owed much to Rousseau’s philosophy. If all the philosophers in the world should prove that I am wrong, and you feel that I am right, that is all I ask.

Running the (Full) M… on The Madrid Half-MarathonĢ023: New Year… on From Gold to Glory: A Slice of…Ģ023: New Year… on Summertime in Andalucía: Three…Ģ023: New Year… on Summertime in Andalucía: …Ģ023: New Year… on Summertime in Andalucía: Jerez… Summertime in Andalucía: Jerez and Cádiz.

Emile by rousseau