ABSTRACT
At no time in my life did I keep a diary. This I came to regret on occasion in later years when I wrote some autobiographical essays, for I had to rely on memory, letters, and conversations. I tried to be truthful, though I never felt the obligation to relate the whole truth. There was a private sphere that I had no urge to share with others. Memory is fallible, and in some instances, in later years, I was no longer certain where my imagination got the better of reality. I was born on a Thursday and my autobiography was therefore entitled Thursday’s Child Has Far to Go. I thought it a good and original title; only years later did I realize that it was also the title of Eartha Kitt’s story of her life and half a dozen of other people. It seems to be impossible to find a title of which someone else has not thought before.
