Let me explain.

Every man has reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone,

but only to his friends. He has other matters in his mind which he would

not reveal even to his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But

there are other things which a man is afraid to tell even to himself, and

every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his mind.

The more decent he is, the greater the number of such things in his

mind. Anyway, I have only lately determined to remember some of my

early adventures. Till now I have always avoided them, even with a

certain uneasiness. Now, when I am not only recalling them, but have

actually decided to write an account of them, I want to try the experiment

whether one can, even with oneself, be perfectly open and not take

fright at the whole truth. I will observe, in parenthesis, that Heine says

that a true autobiography is almost an impossibility, and that man is

bound to lie about himself. He considers that Rousseau certainly told lies

about himself in his confessions, and even intentionally lied, out of

vanity. I am convinced that Heine is right; I quite understand how

sometimes one may, out of sheer vanity, attribute regular crimes to

oneself, and indeed I can very well conceive that kind of vanity. But

Heine judged of people who made their confessions to the public. I write

only for myself, and I wish to declare once and for all that if I write as

though I were addressing readers, that is simply because it is easier for me

to write in that form. It is a form, an empty form--I shall never have

readers. I have made this plain already ...

I don't wish to be hampered by any restrictions in the compilation of

my notes. I shall not attempt any system or method. I will jot things down

as I remember them.

But here, perhaps, someone will catch at the word and ask me: if you

really don't reckon on readers, why do you make such compacts with

yourself--and on paper too--that is, that you won't attempt any system

or method, that you jot things down as you remember them, and so on,

and so on? Why are you explaining? Why do you apologise?

Well, there it is, I answer.

There is a whole psychology in all this, though. Perhaps it is simply

that I am a coward. And perhaps that I purposely imagine an audience

before me in order that I may be more dignified while I write. There are

perhaps thousands of reasons. Again, what is my object precisely in

writing? If it is not for the benefit of the public why should I not simply

recall these incidents in my own mind without putting them on paper?

Quite so; but yet it is more imposing on paper. There is something

more impressive in it; I shall be better able to criticise myself and improve

my style. Besides, I shall perhaps obtain actual relief from writing.

Today, for instance, I am particularly oppressed by one memory of a

distant past. It came back vividly to my mind a few days ago, and has

remained haunting me like an annoying tune that one cannot get rid of.

And yet I must get rid of it somehow. I have hundreds of such reminiscences;

but at times some one stands out from the hundred and oppresses me.