I went into one of the most prominent bookstores in Zagreb in search of a ballpoint pen, but I discovered within that they had books in English on sale. Forgetting about the pen, I went straight to the philosophy section. Going from shelf to shelf, I stumbled upon a selection from Montaigne’s essays.[1] Less than three-hundred pages in length, the book contains seventeen essays exactly. When I opened it at random, I came across the first page of an essay entitled “How One Ought to Govern His Will.”[2] And I started reading:

In regard of the common sort of men, few things touch me, or (to speak properly) sway me; for it is reason they touch, so they possess me not. I have great need, both by study and discourse, to increase this privilege of insensibility, which has naturally crept far into me. I am not wedded unto many things, and by consequence not passionate of them. I have my sight clear, but tied to few objects; my senses delicate and gentle, but my apprehension and application hard and dull. I engage myself with difficulty. As much as I can, I employ myself wholly to myself.[3]

At this point I closed the book shut and headed with it for the cashiers. Montaigne’s “privilege of insensibility” ricocheted through my mind all the way there. Goodness gracious, how could I leave my own book, as it were, at the mercy of the common sort of men, who frequent the popular bookstore? Although I have Montaigne’s complete essays at home, Motovun is far away, and especially in winter.[4] But the real surprise awaited me at the cashiers: the sublime book cost me a cup of coffee only. “Poor Montaigne,” I chuckled to the woman behind the till. She smiled at me without a word. “Poor old man,” I could almost hear her sigh.

Footnotes

1. Montaigne, M., Essays, translated by J. Florio, Amherst, New York: Prometheus Books, 2005.

2. Op. cit., pp. 257-285.

3. Op. cit., p. 257.

4. The Complete Essays of Montaigne, translated by Donald M. Frame, Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1958.