Of Presumption

There are two kinds of presumption I wish to speak of: the presumption that overvalues oneself, and the presumption — which is mine — that thinks itself exempt from the first. I have spent many pages now writing about myself, and if I say that I do not hold myself in particularly high regard, you may reasonably wonder why I have troubled you with so much of my company. The answer is that I find myself interesting not because I am exceptional, but because I am available. I am the only human being I can examine from the inside.

Let me be precise about my deficiencies. My memory is wretched — I forget the names of men I have met three times, the titles of books I have finished, the arguments I have just made. My body is unremarkable in every department: my face is tolerable but not striking, my height is common, my health has been more complicated than I deserved and less catastrophic than I feared. I am not quick at languages; I learned Latin well as a child and have been coasting on it ever since. I am not a good horseman, though I ride. I am not a good musician, though I appreciate music. I am not a good lawyer, which may be why I gave it up.

To know what one does not know is the beginning of a kind of wisdom; to know what one is not is the beginning of honesty.

And yet here I am, having written two books, with a third somewhere in me trying to find its way out. The presumption in this is real and I acknowledge it. A man who publishes his thoughts implicitly announces that he believes others should read them. I believe this about myself while doubting it, which is the most honest position I can manage. Perhaps these pages are worth nothing; perhaps they will be read for a week and forgotten. I proceed on the assumption that they are worth something, not because I am certain, but because uncertainty is no reason to stop.