what I wrote in my Journal then, in 1980 - The Autobiography of Charles Kempthorne I am going to begin with the sentence, “I was born in Minot, North Dakota on January 24, 1938.” And then I’ll ask, “So what? What does it matter?” And then, the proper question of an autobiography, “What does it matter?” for every autobiography is an implicit statement of what the author thinks does matter. Life is complicated in these times because we have so many options. I have had too many options. I have had too many ideas and not enough experiences, too many fantasies and not enough realities. It may come as a surprise to those who knew me then--and who remember--that I was a lonely, alienated child. I was lonely in a crowd, alienated from myself. I do not matter, what I have perceived and felt matters immensely. I am more than 42 years old, I have lived 15,373 days and nights, I have outlived my mind a dozen times. If I could live to be 250 years old, I might get it all together. I find myself more disgusting than admirable, though I do admire myself. Life is really very simple, I have concluded, and not at all strange. It’s very hard to know what to say. Is anything worth saying? Is anything worth doing? I’m convinced that the answer to both these questions is yes, but the yes is not resounding, or glorious, or noble. Life is okay. So is death. It’s an experience. The problem is that I began conscious life by thinking it was al very significant, which it is not. My life is significant to me and those close to me. Otherwise it is utterly without significance. What can I say? It seems I will have to be concrete. |
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