Journal of Napoleon Bonaparte

Paris, Valence, Toulon — 1785 to 1795

September 22, 1785 – Paris

I’ve graduated early from the military school. The King needs officers, they say. I’m a second lieutenant in the artillery, stationed in Valence. It’s not a destiny yet — but it’s a beginning.

France is simmering. The people groan beneath centuries of injustice, and I watch the old world like a fortress already cracking. I’ve read Rousseau with fervor, but it’s Machiavelli who speaks to me when night falls: power is not earned. It is taken.

July 15, 1786 – Valence

I live in silence and books. The other officers waste their pay on games and girls. I count every coin, and stack volumes instead. Tacitus, Montesquieu, the memoirs of Turenne... I sharpen my mind as one sharpens a blade.

I am poor, and I’m proud of it. Poverty is armor if you know how to wear it. It teaches you to watch everything, to prepare for anything. It makes you hungry — for victory.

September 2, 1789 – Ajaccio

The Revolution has erupted. I returned to Corsica, hoping to find my roots. But the island is ablaze with chaos and betrayal. I believed for a moment I could reconcile my love for the Republic with my loyalty to my people. I was wrong.

Paoli, the old hero, cast me aside like a traitor. My family was insulted. We had to flee. I am an exile from two lands now: Corsica denies me, and France regards me with suspicion. But this only feeds my will. Those who are cast out often become those who wear crowns.

October 10, 1793 – Toulon

At last, action! Toulon, held by the English, called for fire. I secured a command in the artillery. I’m twenty-four, and war has finally acknowledged me as one of its own.

I fought as one writes a poem: with precision, with rhythm, with fury. I placed the guns where they needed to be, took the fort at L’Eguillette, drove the English out. And suddenly, I am a brigadier general.

The Republic seems to like those who shoot straight.

April 5, 1794 – Nice

I dream of Italy. I feel it, I see it — a stage where I might at last play the part I deserve. The Directory does not understand me. I’m too young, too lucid. I make them nervous. They reduce my command. Watch me.

But I’m not worried. Revolutions devour their children — but sometimes they crown the one who dares master them. I wait, like an eagle sensing the right wind.

13 Vendémiaire, Year IV (October 5, 1795) – Paris

The royalists rose up. Paris teetered. The Directory gave me command of its defense. I responded with cannon.

One well-placed volley on the Rue Saint-Roch, and order returned. They call it “the whiff of grapeshot.” I had no pity, no hesitation. Power never returns to the timid.

Now, I am General Bonaparte. Paris begins to fear me. That is the first step. Soon, it will learn to admire me.

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