This autobiography is written and joined together in a kind of patchwork fashion.
This is the way I remember key stages of my life thus far.
The gaps-the bread and butter stuff that held all the events together is so ordinary- commonplace – that it deserves to be, and indeed has been – binned.
I have often expounded that there is no such thing as the self. My character has been formed by upbringing, the era and events which I have recorded, the influence of my parents, friends, family members, the news, films, books, radio, television, diet, education and politics. This is why we are all unique, why we are all interesting and have stories to tell. But I despair because I have had no input whatsoever in the making of Steve Jones. Good and bad fortune has to a certain degree determined my viewpoint of life. My decisions, the exercising of choice-has bought me to the point of typing this- and have been made by animal instinct-selfish tactics ingrained by circumstance. Now in my autumn years, I am struggling to find an antithesis for the above. I want to say “I drink therefore I am” or argue that the saying “no man is an island” is an incorrect premise; because there is no such thing as an island….it’s only the water level that gives the illusion.
Such was the state of my mind during the formation of this book, looking to make sense of it all, hoping that the reader can identify with a few things here, and maybe there are some lessons and warnings.
Autumn leaves are lying thick on the ground; the shed in which all my work has been written will soon be “not fit for purpose”.
The name is just a sound, the letters that form it are just quiet symbols.