To his mother

An excerpt from D's journal in 1995.
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Whenever I write I assume that what I write will be read.  The idea of a diary, a personal journal of innermost thoughts, to be read by no one, seems pointless to me.  As the child in toilet training must think, why take a crap if there's nobody there to appreciate it?

So I write with an audience in mind.  The standard I try to maintain is the standard that my mother, no nonsense literary critic that she is, has taught me.  Be succinct, be witty.  Maintain a style.  I can't say I've done that in this book.
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(I secretly hope this will justify my putting his private stuff in front of an audience, though small.)