This diary is what you might call sui generis, meaning, of its own genre, though to say so of a work is usually left to the critics, or at least to the reading public, rather than to the author of the work itself, in this case me, though I feel no hesitation in breaking with this custom, even if to do so causes me to seem presumptuous, or more confident than I ought to be in my ability to judge my own work, as one of the reasons I undertook this project was to rid myself of the need for critics, or, anyway, of the desire to be noticed by them, not because I’m against them, or because I think there is no role for them, but in fact because I am one, or count myself among them, whether I am one or not, insofar as the faculty that is most evident to me, in my work, is not the imaginative, or the lyrical, though both of these might be present to a degree, and would be present for certain were I primarily a poet, or a writer of fictions, but that which I’d call the comparative, or the differentiative, which seeks to distinguish that which is true from that which purports to be true, but isn’t.