Warning from the Author

What I do, what I think, and who I am should be of no interest to anyone; nothing I do is particularly noteworthy, none of my thoughts are particularly original, and it's my thinking that no aspect of my being should consume anyone's attention for any amount of time. I can't see how my words will have any value as entertainment, much less instruction, since I have neither the talent nor the inclination for composing such things. In sum, I can think of no reason why any reader should be bothered to read any part of what I have to say.


The fact is that I write for my own benefit and amusement; partly to pass the time, and partly in the hopes that I might gain some insight into my character although, to be honest, I suspect that my efforts will be useless even in this regard, since what I write contains mostly lies. But the truth is that I don't write with an audience in mind. This may be a lie. I suppose this is a fair warning.


I offer no apologies, ever, but I realize that the aforementioned may seem somewhat dry, even mundane. The purpose of blogging seems to consist of postulations that are nonconcurring. For reflection? For oneself? For entertaining others? For journaling significant anythings? For business purposes?


I do not plan to propose any purpose for my prose, nor do I expect the other authors to state any form of intent. Between the timestamp this post is marked to the initiation of my next entry, I will ponder how I will exist on this blog. This may sound profound, but it isn't. High brow? Yes. Always.


I am leaving you with Michel de Montaigne's address to the reader from Essays of Montaigne.

READER, here is a book of good faith; it doth at the outset forewarn thee that in it I have proposed to myself no other than a domestic and private end: I have had no consideration either to thy service or to my glory. My strength is not capable of such a design. I have dedicated it to the private commodity of my kinsfolk and friends, so that, having lost me (which they have to do shortly), they may therein recover some traits of my conditions and humors, and by that means preserve more whole and more vivid the knowledge they had of me. Had my intention been to seek the world’s favor, I should surely have adorned myself with borrowed beauties: I desire herein to be viewed, as you see me, in mine own simple, natural, and ordinary manner, without study and artifice: for it is myself I paint. My defects are herein to be read to the life: my imperfections and my natural form, so far as public respect permitted me. If I had lived among those nations which (they say) yet dwell under the sweet liberty of primitive laws of nature, I assure thee I would most willingly have painted myself quite fully and quite naked. Thus, reader, myself am the matter of my book: there’s no reason thou shouldst employ thy leisure on so frivolous and vain a subject. Adieu, then!