But Rousseau had not suddenly shaken off his shyness to become a bold and conquering literary figure. His self-perception as a giant was never without its relentless shadow: the paranoia of a man who felt persecuted by everyone. As his sketched self-portrait continues, it veers off in the direction of megalomania: “The contempt which my deep reflections had inspired in me for the customs, the principles, and the prejudices of my age made me insensible to the mockery of those who followed them; and I crushed their little witticisms with my observations, as I might crush an insect between my fingers.”[1] To emphasize the simple grandeur that set him apart from other mortals, Rousseau now commonly wore an Armenian-style tunic and fur cap. He had turned his back on the big cities, which he regarded as breeding grounds for decadence and corruption, veritable wrecking yards of morality. Instead, he had found a simpler life in the countryside, where he could meditate, go for long, solitary walks, and be inspired by the beauty of creation.

From Philipp Blom’s A Wicked Company: The Forgotten Radicalism of the European Enlightenment, New York: Basic Books, 2010, p. 200.

Footnote

1. Rousseau, J.-J., The Confessions, translated by Angela Scholar, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000, p. 388.