On the Arrogance of Writing a Book.

A preface to a book I wrote nine years ago, along with the cover design of that same book.

Arrogant—that seems a fitting word for an “author” who initials his first and middle names on a book cover despite the fact that no one has heard of him. Writing a book is itself an arrogant thing to do—who has the time to read a book, let alone write one? Yet, if it is possible that pride is really the outward display of insecurity, and vanity is merely the shadow of self-loathing, then what initially appears to be arrogance may actually be humility or even compassion. Considering this is likely the case with our poor author, it seems sensible that for every objectionable remark he makes you should have all the more pity on him.

But who is this strange man!—asking for pity? He is someone who wishes no offense and, in his better moments, thinks little of himself. To write, however, he must have some measure of confidence: if his belief in his writing is misplaced, then he has lied to himself and he is a liar, but he already feels that he is living a lie when he is not writing from the sincerity of his heart. And for so long he felt that his whole life was a lie and he himself was a lie—who wants to be that? It is the occasion for much self-contempt. Thus, in a rather groveling manner, the author humbly asks the reader to place their trust in a stranger, and practice the highest readerly virtues of patience and attention—even if that request, too, is arrogant.