A Reflection on the Autobiographical Memory and on the Current Meaning of the Individual Life

Abstract

Sometime ago, one of those people that would never be a real friend, told me that he intended to publish his autobiography and asked me to check a rough copy of it. I must confess that I was flabbergasted when I listened to him, for I had known his life through our conversations and I knew that there was nothing interesting to write about it, which was what I tried to tell him without offending his literary ambitions; although, since I never received the mentioned rough copy during the rest of our relation-ship, which was rather brief, I guess that my acquaintance understood what I meant and he kept hisopera magnafor a less execrable reviser.