My quotidian experience consists of a continuous, self-conscious cavalcade of self-criticism. Everything about myself that comes before my mind, everything that appears on the spotlighted stage at the Cartesian Theatre, is made to do a pirouette and then is bathed in boos and hisses.

I am possessed of sufficient self-knowledge to know a substantial number of the primary characteristics of my personality type, those which would be evident not to an acquaintance or even a friend, but discoverable only by a trained psychoanalyst: paramount among these is a normal amount of self-absorption and an unusual amount of ambition, plus a penchant for complicated dependent clauses, near-perfection in grammatical construction, and long—but never breathless—sentence structure.

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