Yes, I, Multatuli, “who have borne much,” take up the pen. I make no apology for the form of my book. That form appeared to me suitable for the attainment of my object.
That object is twofold:
In the first place I wished to give existence to a thing that may be kept as a sacred heirloom by little Max and his sister, when their parents shall have perished from want.
I wished to give those children a patent of nobility from my own hand.
And in the second place: I will be read.
Yes, I will be read! I will be read by statesmen who are obliged to watch the signs of the time . . . by literati who “also just want to have a look” at the book of which everyone says such unpleasant things . . . by traders who are interested in coffee-sales . . . by ladies’ maids who will hire me for a couple of pence . . . by Governor-Generals in peaceful retirement . . . by Ministers in occupation . . . by the lackeys of these “Excellencies” . . . by praying parsons who will say more majorum that I attack the Almighty God, where I only rise against the little deity that they made after their own image . . . by thousands and ten thousands of samples of the race of Drystubble, who—continuing to promote their little businesses in the well-known manner—will be the loudest to shriek with others about the “prettiness” of my writings . . . by the members of the Houses of Representatives, who have to know what is going on in the great Empire beyond the sea, which belongs to the Realm of the Netherlands.
Yes, I shall be read!
When this object is attained, I shall be satisfied. For it was not my desire to write well . . . I wanted to write in such a way as to be heard. And like one who cries: “Stop thief!” and who troubles little about the style of his improvised address to the public, so also I am quite indifferent as to the manner in which people will consider that I have yelled my “Stop thief!”
“The book is a patchwork . . . there is no gradual develop-
