Several years ago, an ageing friend of mine, who remains unimpressed with my erudition and knowledge, urged me to read biographies and autobiographies. “If nothing else,” she said with complete seriousness, “you will realise the truth about yourself.”
Not being in a hurry to do that, I kept putting off the evil day. But four years ago in a fit of depression I decided to start down that path of de-egoing. It has been a salutary experience.
The pleasant surprise was that most people who wrote autobiographies were decent enough people, just ordinary guys who were lucky enough to be in the
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