I have been serving up stories to some sort of public, and in these stories I have, I know, laid myself bare - to the point of non-recognition. I live, not with my own story, but just with those parts of it that I have been able to put to literary use. Whole areas are missing: my father, my brother, my sister. Last year my sister died. I was disturbed to realize that I knew so much about her and yet had written none of it. It is not even true that I have always described just myself. I have never described myself. I have only betrayed myself.