Caustic and acerbic of just about every one of his acquaintances, Stendhal never pulled any punches. But the bitterest targets of his bluntest commentaries were nations: “in England the divisions between classes are as distinct as they are in India, the country of pariahs,” and “The English are, I think, the most obtuse and barbaric people in the world.” About Germans: “… apart from their enthusiasm, the Germans are too stupid.” And Italians: “The Italians would have held forth, each of them occupying the floor for twenty minutes and remaining the mortal enemy of his antagonist in the discussion. At the third meeting they would have composed satirical sonnets against one another.” About Russia: “In a half-civilized country like Russia he’d pass as a hero…”
The value of Stendhal’s memoirs lies in the man’s sincerity as demonstrated by his plain —often offensive— language. Yet, one has to heed his opinions, for they are laden with deep insights; especially, his opinions about art and literature. His assessment of Walter Scott has been prophetic in a negative way, as has been his recognition of Shakespeare, Diderot, Goldsmith, Voltaire, and Mozart in a positive way.
Besides the lighthearted prose he employed, Stendhal managed to inject humor, oblivious to whether his brand of humor was appropriate or perhaps even risqué. His main preoccupation was to be read, to be quite sober and yet entertaining—never boring.
