The Autobiography of a Son Who Chose Not to Be Like His Father

I’m reminded that Mark Twain concluded that he could probably write a truthful account of himself and the people who played an important part in his life as long as he was reassured that his autobiography would be published a hundred years after his death. On sober reflection, however, he decided telling the truth about oneself was probably a pretty unlikely undertaking. Instead, he would have to settle for the more or less accurate character sketches he thought he could construct of others rather than himself, reminding his readers that he was no better able than they were at being honest in telling his own story. This, of course, is my challenge—the same challenge that anybody who purports to write an autobiographical statement must be willing to acknowledge. In the end, it may fall to interested others to make greater sense of what my experiences have really been like rather than the collection of insights that will shortly follow. I have had the audacity and the hubris to share my understanding of myself because I believe—however inaccurately—that it will help my readers grasp malignant narcissism in a far more intimate way than they otherwise could and, simultaneously, not least because I believe that in elucidating my own pain, others will be in a better position to understand theirs.