“In spite of a good foundation of sound morals, the natural offspring of the Divine principles which had been early rooted in my heart, I have been throughout my life the victim of my senses; I have found delight in losing the right path, I have constantly lived in the midst of error, with no consolation but the consciousness of my being mistaken.”
With these words, Giacomo Casanova opens the only one of his works that left a lasting mark: his vast, audacious autobiography detailing a life filled with morally outrageous behavior. Any reader questioning those “sound morals” or “Divine principles” he refers to is surely justified.
Casanova was born in Venice in the spring of 1725 and lived during the final decades of what would later be called the Enlightenment. In the 300 years since, his name has become an international icon, shorthand for the archetypal seductive male—the ultimate ladies’ man.
But is the man who came to represent irresistible charm and romance a true representative of Enlightenment values, or something darker altogether? And how does that reconcile with his rather unglamorous time as a librarian during his final days?
His origins were humble, perhaps just a rung or two above the bottom of Venetian society. His father (if indeed he was the biological father) was a failed actor; his mother, also an actress, was the daughter of a simple artisan. Whether the couple sought and were denied the blessing of her parents or simply assumed it would be futile, they eloped and married in secret.
A fittingly romantic opening for someone who would later make romance—in all its forms—his life’s work.
But at the time, this beginning was anything but glamorous. The young actors left Venice, abandoning Casanova to the care of his grandmother, who either forgave her wayward daughter or hoped to save her grandson from a similar fate.
Casanova claimed his first memory came at the age of eight: bleeding inexplicably from his nose, his grandmother took him to an Italian witch for “treatment.” Locked in a closed box, stripped, made to swallow five “tasty” pills and inhale unknown fumes while being forced to listen to chants of varying insanity, he later concluded:
“It would be ridiculous, of course, to attribute this cure to such follies, but at the same time I think it would be wrong to assert that they did not in any way contribute to it.”
Perhaps this was where young Casanova first learned the power of illusion. He would go on to perform similar feats—with far less innocent intent.
From the moment he gained independence, his life unfolded across the length and breadth of Europe, itself then caught between religious rigidity and modern permissiveness. He moved from city to city, adopting countless trades (most of them sheer charlatanry), meeting Europe’s elites—Catherine the Great, the Pope—and seducing upward of 150 women.
He must have been extraordinarily talented. Even if his roles as musician, poet, teacher, quack doctor, or army officer would today be dismissed as mere gimmicks for show, only a highly gifted person could perform all these convincingly.
He had a phenomenal talent for ingratiating himself with others. Not just the women he famously seduced, but nobles and merchants, bishops and generals, mothers and princesses. They trusted him, loved him, gave him gifts and opportunities, housed him, and entrusted him (often without justification) with their loved ones and secrets. He passed through their lives like a whirlwind, taking pieces of them with him to his next adventure.
In 1798, Casanova died alone and penniless, working as a librarian in the Bohemian castle of Count Waldstein. It could have been a redemptive ending—perhaps his true love had always been books, and the libertine label exaggerated and unfair. But that simply wasn’t the case.
Casanova was certainly educated, but he took the librarian job because he had no other choice. Time and age had stripped him of his youth and charm—the “tools” that had served him so well.
Bored and likely longing for the thrill of past decades, he began writing his memoirs in that Bohemian library.
He didn’t know it, but this literary endeavor would grant him a second life—first, the one he actually lived, and second, through the stories that immortalized him.
When he died, Casanova left behind two significant legacies: an unknown number of children scattered across Europe, and a handwritten manuscript spanning thousands of pages, recounting his life up to age 49—the age, apparently, when his charm began to fade and the adventures he deemed worth telling had ended.
This scandalous French-language manuscript was eventually sold by his niece’s daughter to the German publisher Brockhaus, who translated it into German and were the first to release it—in a highly censored edition. The National Library of Israel holds a copy of this edition. Later, the French would translate from the German version, as they had no access to the original.
The manuscript was massive. Complete editions ran to twelve volumes packed with escapades told at a breathless pace, filled with various shades of madness and sexual liberty, completely lacking in moral restraint.
Between the censored and uncensored versions, the memoirs became a commercial sensation, spawning dozens of translations and countless stage and screen adaptations. And yet, full unabridged versions were rare. Publishers, depending on time and place, either censored the sexual content or highlighted it, turning the books into outright erotica.
Interestingly, the first Hebrew translation, published in 1947, took the latter path: a series of scandalous, slim booklets titled The Love Nights of Casanova, sold weekly at newsstands across the country for just 20 mil.
Brockhaus guarded the original manuscript closely, and for over a century, all translations were based on the flawed German edition. Only in 2010 did the Bibliothèque nationale de France acquire the original manuscript—for more than €7 million.
Regardless, the name Casanova had already become a myth. He was the ultimate lover, the man no woman could resist, the one who let nothing stand in his way.
Reading his memoirs today is a disturbing experience. Over hundreds of pages, he deceives and seduces hundreds of women—sometimes with consent, sometimes without, sometimes involving their family members. He was, in his way, a radical egalitarian: all women were equal in his eyes, rich or poor, prostitutes or nuns, young (very young) or old, married, engaged, or single, of any race, color, religion, or nationality.
Unlike Don Juan or the Marquis de Sade, Casanova casts himself as a saint. He didn’t simply use women and discard them. He loved them—and, through staggering charisma, made them fall in love with him. He convinced men to give him their sisters, mothers to entrust him with their daughters.
His memoirs read like a nonstop series of romantic novellas, historical farces, and adventure tales. Their truthfulness is dubious, but their entertainment value undeniable. In one, he scolds the Pope; in another, he conducts military raids, heals the sick, tricks the Inquisition, or escapes prison.
But the romantic exploits that defined his legacy are far less palatable.
He praises the women he desires. Even the hundredth is described as the most beautiful he’s ever seen. His language is epic, his desire not merely physical but rooted in conversation, laughter, and sincere emotional connection. He rejoices in giving them pleasure and is genuinely upset if he causes them distress.
At the same time, the methods he used to win their affection—and his complete lack of moral restraint—are deeply disturbing. Some behavior raised legal concerns even in his time; today, it would certainly be criminal.
He left behind a long trail of heartbreak: women whose virginity and trust he took through deception, often leaving them pregnant, disgraced, or ostracized. He sometimes took what he wanted despite resistance, even violently.
Today, Casanova would likely be banned from dating apps or featured in exposés. And yet, for generations, readers have devoured his stories, often with a surprising degree of forgiveness. Is the enduring appeal of his legend rooted in something darker, embedded in our human nature?
A little over a century after his death, Austrian-Jewish writer Stefan Zweig addressed this in his introduction to one edition of Casanova’s memoirs.
Zweig’s preface is full of harsh criticism. Right from the start, he dismisses Casanova’s literary pretensions:
“From the scanty number of verses which he composed in haste, between the bed and the card-table of some insignificant lady, there exhales a pungent odour of musk and of academic glue. To read through his utopian novel requires the patience of a lamb in a donkey’s skin.”
And yet, Zweig’s main critique is not of Casanova’s life choices but of the very fact that his memoirs achieved literary stature:
“Never in his wildest dreams did this trembling old man, whose body was racked with rheumatism, think that in years to come, philologists with venerable white beards and historians would bow over these memoirs as over the most precious parchment of the eighteenth century.”
One can almost imagine this debate playing out today: the highbrow literary prizewinner sneering at the bestselling author and their millions of social media followers.
Zweig ends his critique with a kind of resigned concession:
“He has won the game, this player unequalled in luck; and against that there is no appeal and no protest. We may scorn our worthy friend for his lack of morality and for his frivolous seriousness; we may refute him as a chronicler and deny him as an artist. But one thing is impossible—to thrust him back into oblivion. For, despite all poets and thinkers, the world has never found a romance more romantic than his life, nor a protagonist more astounding than himself.”
Has the world truly never found a figure more captivating than this unrepentant libertine? I have my doubts. But to quote Mark Twain: “There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.”
