In my memoir, An American Childhood, I only wanted to define the meaning of life. I wanted everyone to wake up so we could finally prove Thoreau wrong when he said he'd never met a man who was fully awake - well, here's a woman who is, me . I wanted to present a collection of images, mental frames of reference that have played a vital role in the formation of modern identity. It allowed me to let you feel my experiences of confusion and wonder and to witness the growth of maturity that resonated in my spirit. These random events and memories from my childhood developed a profound sense of change. It seems that nothing important was mentioned in my memoirs, but take a closer look. Memory is such a valiant little thing: it keeps to itself what hurts us and softens us in the current situation. How far back can it go? And how, in fact, do any of us remember our younger days? Of course, I remembered incidents that were childhood accidents, a scary incident like the monster, a phobia, a reprimand for an inexcusable matter of bad manners, dating...