ABSTRACT
One might suppose that when the writer is not only a historian, but someone who has edited the autobiographies of a majority of his generation’s leading scholars, the task of recounting his own life would be comparatively easy. At the moment, as I sit alone in my study with pen in hand, this supposition seems doubtful for several reasons. Chief among these is that to include one’s own intellectual history in a volume of one’s own editing may seem not only egotistical, but even of dubious propriety. The danger in this being the case is enhanced by the fact that as I view my life in retrospect, I find myself once again experiencing emotions and strivings that remain very intimate. This intimacy deepens as I contemplate ideals that have yet to be fulfilled and reactions to past encounters that still stir deep feelings.
