I tell this story because it is the closest I can come to autobiography, i.e., that it is filled with indiscretions which reveal a good deal not about Sidney Tamond (as good a man as any we are likely to find again on the earth), but about myself. If there is one thing I hate as a biographer it is autobiography. Perhaps a lifetime of retelling the most impressive deeds and actions of others has left me with a certain loathing of my own. “I am other men, any man …