I have never begun a novel with more misgiving If I call it a novel it is only because I dont know what else to call it I have little story to tell and I end neither with a death or a marriage Instead I leave my reader in the air This book consists of my recollections of a man with whom I was thrown into close contact only at long intervals and I have little knowledge of what happened to him in between I suppose that by the exercise of invention I could fill the gaps plausibly enough and so make my narrative more coherent but I have no wish to do that I only want to set down what I know