I'm not finished with Book IV yet, but I still can only say I continue to grow to love Rousseau more and more. I'm sure not every reader feels this way about him and this is a matter of personal taste, however, I think he is fabulous.
Rousseau stated:
"for it is impossible for man,
and difficult even for nature herself, to surpass the riches of my
imagination."
This is what Rousseau thinks when he walks into the filth of Paris after he has carried with him an aggrandized vision of the mythical city. Meaning that his imagination of Paris is a better place to be than the Paris of reality.
I am charmed by the activity of his richness of his inner world that so often disappoints him when faced with reality. I wonder if he ever matures out of this coping mechanism?