Indeed, recollections, which go back 25, 50 or even 70 years, come in many hues. Some are as clear as a sunny day in autumn; others, as cloudy as a foggy summer eve. Are they fact? Are they poesy? Hopefully, they are not fiction.
So this is my dilemma: What should I call these musings about events, which have long passed? Goethe preempted the best title, so I have to settle for: “The Unauthorized Autobiography of W.B.”