Cellini

It is a duty incumbent upon upright and credible men of all ranks,
who have performed anything noble or praiseworthy, to truthfully
record, in their own writing, the principal events of their lives.
--Benvenuto Cellini

"The man who is thoroughly interested in himself is interesting to
other people," Wendell Phillips once said.

Good healthy egotism in literature is the red corpuscle that makes
the thing live. Cupid naked and unashamed is always beautiful; we
turn away only when some very proper person perceives he is naked
and attempts to better the situation by supplying him a coat of mud.
The Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff, wherein are many morbid musings and
information as to the development of her mind and anatomy, is
intensely interesting; Amiel's Journal holds us with a tireless
grasp; the Confessions of Saint Augustine can never die; Jean
Jacques Rousseau's book was the favorite of such a trinity of
opposites as Emerson, George Eliot and Walt Whitman; Pepys' Diary is
so dull it is entertaining; and the Memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini
have made a mediocre man immortal.

Cellini had an intense personality; he was skilful as a workman; he
told the truth as he saw it, and if he ever prevaricated it was
simply by failing to mention certain things that he considered were
no credit to anybody. But his friendships were shallow; those he
respected most, say Michelangelo and Raphael, treated him as Prince
Henry finally did Falstaff, never allowing him to come within half a
mile of their person on penalty. He was intimate with so many women
that he apologized for not remembering them; he had no interest in
his children, and most of his plans and purposes were of a pattypan
order. Yet he wrote two valuable treatises: one on the art of the
goldsmith and the other on the casting of bronze; there is also an
essay on architecture that contains some good ideas; and courtier
that he was, of course wrote some poetry, which is not so bad as it
might be. But the book upon which his reputation rests is the
"Memoirs," and a great book it is. All these things seem to show
that a man can be a great author and yet have a small soul. Haven't
we overrated this precious gift of authorship just a trifle?

Taine said that educated Englishmen all write alike--they are all
equally stupid. And John Addington Symonds, an educated Englishman,
and the best translator of Cellini, wrote, "Happily Cellini was
unspoiled by literary training." Goethe translated Cellini's book
into German and paid the doughty Italian the compliment of saying
that he did the task out of pure enjoyment, and incidentally to
improve his literary style.

Cellini is not exactly like us, and when we read his book