seem as if the life of an editor is not likely to contain very much of
the alabaster tomb element. In truth, however, every life is an
adventure, and if a sense of this adventure cannot be communicated to
the reader, one may feel sure that it is the fault of the writer, not of
the facts. A dull man might make a dull thing of his autobiography even
if he had lived through the French Revolution; whereas a country curate
might thrill the world with his story, provided that his mind were cast
in the right mould and that he found a quickening interest in its
delineation. Barbellion's _Diary_ provides the proof. The interest
of that supremely interesting book lies in the way of telling.

But how is one to know what will interest one's readers? That is a
difficult question. Clearly it is no use to put up a man of straw, call
him the Public, and then try to play down to him or up to him and his
alleged and purely hypothetical opinions and tastes. Those who attempt
to fawn upon the puppet of their own creation are as likely as not to
end by interesting nobody. At any rate, try and please yourself, then at
least one person's liking is engaged. That is the autobiographer's
simple secret.

All the same there is a better reason than that. Pleasure is contagious.
He who writes with zest will infect his readers. The man who argues,
"This seems stupid and tedious to me, but I expect it is what the public
likes," is certain to make shipwreck of his endeavour.

The pivot of my life has been _The Spectator_, and so _The
Spectator_ must be the pivot of my book--the point upon which it and
I and all that is mine turn. I therefore make no apology for beginning
this book with the story of how I came to _The Spectator_.