"Time and again I stood humiliated before a bank clerk who would not admit to my existence because a passport meant nothing to her. Over and over I've had to prove my existence to petty clerks and policemen for whom there was only one valid form of ID. Driven to despair, I wrote my first autobiography, THE LIFE AND TIMES OF AN INVOLUNTARY GENIUS, at the age of twenty-three for the sole reason of having my picture on the cover. Whenever a banker asked to "see some identification," I pulled the book from my mirrored Peruvian bag and pointed to the cover. . ."(p. 3).