Autobiographies and the lipsticking of porcine labia oris.
I just finished a re-reading of Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman! and What Do You Care What Other People Think?, both books childhood favourites of mine (the first more than the second, actually).
I wanted to ask this question (no offence, but it seemed something worth asking after the second reading of these books at the age of 42): Does anyone else think Feynman was making things up most of the time, and that his life was perhaps a lot less colourful in reality?
Do note that this is in no way a reflection of his prowess as a scientist, of which I have nothing to say (since his higher science is out of the reach of someone like me, but his popular science is mind-bogglingly beautiful and I must admit, I cannot imagine anyone except him talking of those things).
I get this feeling many-a-times when reading autobiographies, that either they lived in a time when it was possible to do so many things or get into so many interesting situations or be part of so many famous incidents, or that they were geniuses, or plain lucky, or perhaps lying, or (in all probability) a combination of all of these, with the proportion of some component more than others.
Later edit: Subsequent enquiries with people who knew Prof.Feynman in person, and corroboration from other accounts by people close to him have revealed that he was indeed an amazing man who lived a brilliant life. So, this question has been answered as far as Prof Feynman is concerned. But we can dwell on the other aspects of it, methinks.
I wanted to ask this question (no offence, but it seemed something worth asking after the second reading of these books at the age of 42): Does anyone else think Feynman was making things up most of the time, and that his life was perhaps a lot less colourful in reality?
Do note that this is in no way a reflection of his prowess as a scientist, of which I have nothing to say (since his higher science is out of the reach of someone like me, but his popular science is mind-bogglingly beautiful and I must admit, I cannot imagine anyone except him talking of those things).
I get this feeling many-a-times when reading autobiographies, that either they lived in a time when it was possible to do so many things or get into so many interesting situations or be part of so many famous incidents, or that they were geniuses, or plain lucky, or perhaps lying, or (in all probability) a combination of all of these, with the proportion of some component more than others.
There is also a distinct possibility that they were indeed different than the average Joe and led lives that the average Joe could only look askance at in incredulous disbelief, and that is why the average Joe does not write autobiographies, meaning that if you get your autobiography published, chances are that the life you led was so exciting, extraordinary, and affecting people's lives to an extent that the average Joe can scarcely trust that you actually saw and did all that you claim you did, were present at and participated in the events you claim you did, and met and mingled with the people you claim you did. To be honest, one can most certainly expect a bit of touching up and embellishing, smart polishing and application of filters, and of course, some lipsticking of the porcine labia oris, as is the wont of most people who know they are famous.
What is your outlook on this?
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