The truth is always something that is told, not something that is known. If there were no speaking or writing, there would be no truth about anything. There would only be what is. Thus, to me, my life and my preoccupations are not the truth. They are, simply, my life, my preoccupations. But now I am engaged in writing. And in daring to transpose my life into this narrative, I shoulder the dreadful responsibility of telling the truth. I find the narrative which I undertake a difficult task, not because it is hard for me to tell the truth about myself in the sense of reporting honestly “what happened,” “what took place,” but because it is hard for me to speak the truth in the more pretentious sense, truth in the sense of insisting, rousing, convincing, changing another.