The book story was more to me than a sister, a mother, a friend, or even than a mistress, and for this very reason she was not a mistress; in a word. The Confessions is an autobiographical book by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. In modern times. I loved her too much to desire her. More of the amours of the twentysomething Jean-Jacques: here initiated into a strangely compromised manhood by his maman and perennial comforter. Was I happy? No: I felt I know-not-what invincible sadness which empoisoned my happiness, it seemed that I had committed an incest, and two or three times, pressing her eagerly in my arms, I deluged her bosom with my tears. On her part, as she had never sought pleasure, she had not the stings of remorse.
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