Or so it's characterized by Herring-Hawker's Cry:
(27 August 1937) The unpleasant thing about an autobiography is taking oneself so seriously, and yet everyone feels the urge to do so. Even this cursing of just about all and sundry is both ugly and indispensable. But if I describe my life as being exemplary, as a life in this age that I want to hand down to later ages, this can be toned down with irony and the objections raised will then fall away. And this epoch deserves to be handed down just as it is (not in the distanced mode of MwQ [Man without Qualities]), but seen in close-up, as a private life. It can have the charm of intimate historical finds. My probing conscience, contemplation of my shortcomings and the like will also find their place here as a reproduction of the times.