1965

For a long time I wanted to write a book about the mid-1960s and me, it was going to be called 1965, but in the end it proved impossible. The fault was mine. My life, unlike the mid-sixties and that wonderful year, just wasn’t interesting enough to carry the load. Another stumbling block was veracity, not that people would necessarily think I was lying, but I knew they were going to have a hard time believing there’d ever been such a time. The 1950s and 1960s, I mean. There’s always been something mythic about them, and now, as we lose the memories of those who lived them, they threaten to become like lost worlds. Well, history is an art. It’s whatever we say it is. It’s defenseless. So to cheer myself up I wrote this instead.