"
IMAGINE all human beings swept off the face of the earth, excepting one
man. Imagine this man in some vast city, New York or London. Imagine
him on the third or fourth day of his solitude sitting in a house and
hearing a ring at the door-bell!
No man has ever yet succeeded in painting an honest portrait of himself
in an autobiography, however sedulously he may have set to work about
it. In spite of his candid purpose he omits necessary touches and adds
superfluous ones. At times he cannot help draping his thought, and the
least shred of drapery becomes a disguise. It is only the diarist who
accomplishes the feat of self-portraiture, and he, without any such end
in view, does it unconsciously. A man cannot keep a daily record of
his comings and goings and the little items that make up the sum of his
life, and not inadvertently betray himself at every turn. He lays bare
his heart with a candor not possible to the selfconsciousness that
inevitably colors premeditated revelation.
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