I try not to think much about my own mortality. I guess because the length of time I'd like to spend on this earth is too ridiculous for even me to seriously think about too often. And I guess I don't want to jinx my secret desires.
The brave writer who dares to write his or her life story is (I suppose) thinking about and preparing for the inevitability of his or her death. I've always thought of autobiography as an attempt to leave behind--forever in memoriam--something more or less truthful about one's existence.
If you were to take on the task of memorializing your own life in an autobiographical work, what would be the first lines of that autobiography?
Here are some good ones I've seen.
A psychoanalytical mix of perspectives in Roland Barthes, by Roland Barthes:
--To begin with, some images: they are the author's treat to himself, for finishing his book. His pleasure is a matter of fascination (and thereby quite selfish). I have kept only the images which enthrall me, without my knowing why (such ignorance is the very nature of fascination, and what I shall say about each image will never be anything but . . . imaginary).
Poetry in Journey to Le Repentir, by Mark McWatt:
--This is my song of the universe, of the past / that is now and the future that is never...
From E.A. Markham's Against the Grain:
--I was going east, and apparently no one went east. Too dangerous. I was fed-up with being cossetted; so I was quite psyched up to be going into the danger zone, against the advice of everyone.
And, one of a hundred possibilities for the beginning of mine:
Along with pirated TV images of America, my early visions of the world were influenced by projected wall film, lines on chalk boards, school desk and bathroom "art," Playboy, Penthouse, and other assorted good literature, of course.
