“I can see right through you,” my father used to tell me when I was little, and the cringe of that feeling, of being transparent to God and everyone, was so strong that I swore off all forms of autobiography for a long time. How could I be sure I was telling the truth about myself when he claimed to know me better than I did? How could I state anything with absolute certainty—whether I liked a particular song, or wanted to get up and go for a walk, or even whether I was hungry or thirsty?
