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Apologia Pro Literis Meis

"A Title is it? Let me think. … What you want is, obviously, something neat and at the same time unusual, something that will not only catch the eye, but fit the facts. In short, to quote the immortal Birdofreedom Sawin, you need 'suthin combinin moril trewth with phrases such as strikes.'

"How about I, I, Sir, or better still, ALL MY I and never a Betty Martin"?

Thus jeered "my familiar friend, in whom I trusted, which did eat of my bread," and Truth, who barbed the gibe, left It quivering in the flesh.

And what was there to be said in reply? I could only feebly contend that the book had to be about myself anyhow, and that not being a real writer I had lacked skill to make apparent, in spite of all, my essential modesty.

Then taking courage again, I exclaimed: I will not be put down, I will e'en brazen It out; and should one decry me for a swollen egoist, I will fling at him the following proposition and thereby blow up again my somewhat deflated self-esteem.

I will ask him this. If he who makes two blades of grass grow where, before him, grew but one, be accounted, as he admittedly is generally accounted, a great benefactor of mankind, what limit can be put to my own merits who have caused to sprout page viuntellable millions of such, where aforetime was never a one?

But, joking apart, let me now ask, why do we people bother to write reminiscences anyway?

Psycho-analysts would probably assign as a reason, a not uncommon access of Exhibitionism in the aged—the occasional desire of old men to go naked. But that will hardly do, for we do not by any means wish to go as bare as all that. Reminiscences are not diaries and we do not, in them, often dare to emulate the nudity of our very delightful friend Mr. Pepys. Indeed, except by inadvertence, we not only seldom cast a clout, but are even tempted, when occasion offers, to take unto ourselves garments of glory.

So, then, in order that our self-respect may have peace, let us agree that our motives are as follows:

First, a reasonable desire, in us who are usually dumb, for some sort of self-expression; and secondly, a wish that our children may have, later, something of our own writing, whereby to remember us.