“I have become a problem to myself,” writes Saint Augustine in the fourth century. “I shall nevertheless confess to you my shame, since it is for your praise.”
“I have made the first and most painful step in the dark and slimy maze of my confessions,” writes Jean-Jacques Rousseau at the beginning of modernity. “It is not crimes that cost me to speak, but what is ridiculous and shameful.”
“I am disconcerted by an irritating tendency to blush,” writes modernist Michel Leiris in the twentieth century.
“Finally I want to tell You what is meant only for Your ears,” writes Calel Perechodnik, a Jewish ghetto policeman, to his wife already killed by Germans. “I have deceived You.”
“Te moment of transformation filled me with an ardent love,” writes Oswald Pohl after his conversion to Catholicism and shortly before he is hanged as a Nazi war criminal.