Note 12 — Chapter 23⁠[12] The Third of March and the Ninth of May 1838

A fragment of this chapter was published in the Polar Star, vol. i. page 79, together with the following note:

Who is entitled to write his reminiscences?

Every one.

Because no one is obliged to read them.

In order to write one’s reminiscences it is not at all necessary to be a great man, nor a notorious criminal, nor a celebrated artist, nor a statesman—it is quite enough to be simply a human being, to have something to tell, and not merely to desire to tell it but at least some little ability to do so.

Every life is interesting; if not the personality, then the environment, the country are interesting, life itself is interesting. Man likes to enter into another existence, he likes to touch the subtlest fibres of another’s heart, and to listen to its beating ... he compares, he checks it by his own, he seeks in himself confirmation, justification, sympathy....

But may not memoirs be tedious, may not the life described be colourless and commonplace?

Then we shall not read it—there is no worse punishment for a book than that.

Moreover, that is no drawback to the writing of memoirs. Benvenuto Cellini’s Diary is not interesting because he was an excellent worker in gold but because it is in itself as interesting as any novel.

The fact is that the very word ‘entitled’ to this or that form of composition does not belong to our epoch, but dates from an era of intellectual immaturity, from an era of poet-laureates, doctors’ caps, peddling savants, certificated philosophers, diplomaed metaphysicians and other Pharisees of the Christian world. Then the act of writing was regarded as something sacred, a man writing for the public used a high-flown unnatural choice language, he ‘expounded’ or ‘sang.’

We simply talk; for us writing is the same sort of secular pursuit, the same sort of work or amusement as any other. In this connection it is difficult to dispute ‘the right to work.’ Whether the work will win recognition and approval is quite a different matter.

A year ago I published in Russia part of my memoirs under the title of Prison and Exile. I published it in London at the beginning of the war. I did not reckon upon readers nor upon any attention outside Russia. The success of that book exceeded all expectations: the Revue des Deux Mondes, the most chaste and rigid of journals, published half the book in a French translation; the clever and learned Athenaeum printed extracts in English; the whole book has appeared in German and is being published in England.

That is why I have ventured to print extracts from other parts.

In another place I speak of the immense importance my memoirs have for me personally, and the object with which I began writing them. I confine myself now to the general remark that the publication of contemporary memoirs is particularly useful for us Russians. Thanks to the censorship, we are not accustomed to anything being made public, and the slightest publicity frightens, checks, and surprises us. In England any man who appears on any public stage, whether as a huckster of letters or a guardian of the press, is liable to the same hisses and applause as the actor in the lowest theatre in Islington or Paddington. Neither the Queen nor her husband are excluded. It is a mighty curb!

Let our Imperial Actors of the secret and open police, who have been so well protected from publicity by the censorship and paternal punishments, know that sooner or later their deeds will come into the light of day.