Egotism resembles cold drinks in summer; the more you take, the
thirstier you get. It also distorts the vision, producing an hydropic
effect, as has been noted by Calderón in his _Life is a Dream_.
An author always has before him a keyboard made up of a series of I's.
The lyric and satiric writers play in the purely human octave; the
critic plays in the bookman's octave; the historian in the octave of the
investigator. When an author writes of himself, perforce he plays upon
his own "I," which is not exactly that contained in the octave of the
sentimentalist nor yet in that of the curious investigator. Undoubtedly
at times it must be a most immodest "I," an "I" which discloses a name
and a surname, an "I" which is positive and self-assertive, with the
imperiousness of a Captain General's edict or a Civil Governor's decree.
I have always felt some delicacy in talking about myself, so that the
impulsion to write these pages of necessity came from without.
As I am not generally interested when anybody communicates his likes and
dislikes to me, I am of opinion that the other person most probably
shares the same feelings when I communicate mine to him. However, a time
has now arrived when it is of no consequence to me what the other person
thinks.
In this matter of giving annoyance, a formula should be drawn up and
accepted, after the manner of Robespierre: the liberty of annoying
another begins where his liberty of annoying you leaves off.
I understand very well that there may be persons who believe that their
lives are wholly exemplary, and who thus burn with ardour to talk about
them. But I have not led an exemplary life to any such extent. I have
not led a life that might be called pedagogic, because it is fitted to
serve as a model, nor a life that might be called anti-pedagogic,
because it would serve as a warning. Neither do I bring a fistful of
truths in my hand, to scatter broadcast. What, then, have I to say? And
why do I write about myself? Assuredly, to no useful purpose.
The owner of a house is sometimes asked:
"Is there anything much locked up in that room?"
"No, nothing but old rubbish," he replies promptly.
But one day the owner opens the room, and then he finds a great store of
things which he had not remembered, all of them covered with dust; so he
hauls them out and generally they prove to be of no service at all. This
is precisely what I have done.
These pages, indeed, are a spontaneous exudation. But are they sincere?
Absolutely sincere? It is not very probable. The moment we sit for a
photographer, instinctively we dissemble and compose our features. When
we talk about ourselves, we also dissemble.
In as short a book as this the author is able to play with his mask and
to fix his expression. Throughout the work of an entire lifetime,
however, which is of real value only when it is one long autobiography,
deceit is impossible, because when the writer is least conscious of it,
he reveals himself.
I