these Memoirs, only written to console me in the dreadful weariness which is slowly killing me in
Bohemia--and which, perhaps, would kill me anywhere, since, though my body is old, my spirit and my
desires are as young as ever--if these Memoirs are ever read, I repeat, they will only be read when I am gone,
and all censure will be lost on me.
Nevertheless, seeing that men are divided into two sections, the one and by far the greater composed of the
ignorant and superficial, and the other of the learned and reflective, I beg to state that it is to the latter I...