His story of himself was his most prized possession, and everyone around him he saw as editors.  It is why he stopped telling stories about himself, keeping them to himself.  Yet, as with when doing, telling too helps us remember.  Parts of his own stories stopped coming to him when he needed to recall them.  He started mixing different events with their own stories into one, leaving him with fewer and more integrated stories of himself.  When, finally, he felt compelled to say something to his ailing mother, he opened his mouth and heard an “I” slip out, but nothing else followed.  He felt sure that she would forgive him for having forgotten so much of what there is to say.  “You,” she said from deep in her pillow.  Was she correcting him?