I really must stop saying sorry; it doesn’t make things
any better or worse. If only I had it in me to be all fierce,
fearless and forthright instead of forever sprinkling
my discourse with pitiful retractions, apologies and
prevarications. It is one of the reasons I could never
have been an artist, either of a literary or any other
kind. All the true artists I know are uninterested in
the opinion of the world and wholly unconcerned
with self-explanation. Self-revelation, yes, and often,
but never self-explanation. Artists are strong, bloodyminded,
difficult and dangerous. Fate, or laziness, or
cowardice cast me long ago in the role of entertainer,
and that is what I found myself, throughout my twenties,
becoming, though at times a fatally over-earnest, overappeasing
one, which is no kind of entertainer at all, of
course. Wanting to be liked is often a very unlikeable
characteristic. Certainly I don’t like it in myself. But
then, there is a lot in myself that I don’t like.
Twelve years ago I wrote a memoir of my childhood
and adolescence called Moab is My Washpot, a title that
confused no one, so clear, direct and obvious was its
meaning and reference. Or perhaps not. The chronology
took me up to the time I emerged from prison and
managed somehow to get myself accepted into university,
which is where this book takes up the story. For the sake
of those who have read Moab I don’t mean to go over
the same ground. Where I mention events from my past
that I covered there I shall append a superscribed obelus,
thus: †.