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Every man bears the whole stamp of the human condition
Michel de Montaigne
You don't write because you want to say something, you write because you've got something to say
F. Scott Fitzgerald
What is written without effort is read without pleasure
Samuel Johnson

Categories available in essays:

And though nobody should read me, 
have I wasted time in entertaining myself so many idle hours 
in so pleasing and useful thoughts? 
In moulding this figure upon myself, 
I have been so often constrained to temper 
and compose myself in a right posture, 
that the copy is truly taken, and has in some sort formed itself; 
painting myself for others, I represent myself in a better colouring 
than my own natural complexion. I have no more made my book 
than my book has made me: 'tis a book consubstantial with the author, 
of a peculiar design, a parcel of my life, and whose business 
is not designed for others, as that of all other books is.
from The Essays of Montaigne, Michel de Montaigne

Montaigne believed that every one has uniquely extraordinary mind. He just wanted to leave his own stroke, a swirl of his own thoughts. I attempt to copy his effort, but of course plus additional grammatical errors. And time to time, I have to come back to my writings to erase some lines and to add a few new ones, as my writing skills improving slowly. What I write, as Montaigne describe as essai: French for attempt, is an attempt to describe the color of the things I see. I may have some favoritism over certain colors, I may have astigmatism, I may be color-blind or I may be totally so blind that I can see only black and imagine the rests, but I just write the color of the world I see. Anyway, the color in reality is unknownable, a noumenon. Only the colors we see (or we read from others) is we know.

Errare Humanum Est, to err is human, as Melchior De Polignac said. I have excuses for my mistakes and my bias. But probably that makes things believable. As happened to to Che's Motorcycle Diaries. The admission of weakness invites forgiveness, embrace and sometimes adoration. He described it in his words below:

This isn't a tale of derring-do, nor is it merely some kind of 'cynical account'; it isn't meant to be, at least.

So, the coin was tossed, turned somersaults; sometimes coming up heads, sometimes tails. Man, the measure of all things, speaks through my mouth and recounts in my own words what my eyes saw. Out of ten possible heads I may have only seen one tail, or vice versa: there are no excuses; my mouth says what my eyes told it Was our view too narrow, too biased, too hasty, were our conclusions too rigid? Maybe so, but this is how the typewriter interprets the disparate impulses which made you press the keys, and those fleeting impulses are dead. Besides, no one is answerable to them.

If I present a nocturnal picture, you have to take it or leave it, it's not important. Unless you actually know the landscape my diary photographed, you've no option but to accept my version.

The Motorcycle Diaries, Che Guevara