I remember one day long ago driving down Park Avenue on the way to Penn Station with a sheaf of notes for a Harvard lecture in the right-hand pocket of my raincoat, and in the left, a celluloid packet containing twelve photographs, with accompanying text, of one girl model spanking another on her bare bottom with a hairbrush. Given a choice, I would far rather have jettisoned the contents of the right-hand pocket: with this dichotomy I have spent my life. (Note the fearless candour of this amazing revelation.) (And note, too, the self-deprecating irony — 'fearless candour', 'amazing revelation' — with which I have phrased it, thereby showing what a self-critical person I am.) (And if you think that sounds self-congratulatory, let me answer you that I am well aware of my faults, which are numerous.) (And if that implies too much self- knowledge, may I add that, in fact etc. etc. etc.) Such is the art of autobiography.
in The diaries of Kenneth Tynan edited by John Lahr
Bloomsbury Publishing, Plc, London
©2001 by Tracy Tynan