A few weeks ago, I visited Jobs for the last time in his Palo Alto, Calif., home. He had moved to a downstairs bedroom because he was too weak to go up and down stairs. He was curled up in some pain, but his mind was still sharp and his humor vibrant. We talked about his childhood, and he gave me some pictures of his father and family to use in my biography. As a writer, I was used to being detached, but I was hit by a wave of sadness as I tried to say goodbye. In order to mask my emotion, I asked the one question that was still puzzling me: Why had he been so eager, during close to 50 interviews and conversations over the course of two years, to open up so much for a book when he was usually so private? “I wanted my kids to know me,” he said. “I wasn’t always there for them, and I wanted them to know why and to understand what I did.
Jobs' last thoughts were focused on passing on his legacy--his history so to speak--so that his children would "know why and to understand what I did." Now, isn't that what real history is really all about?
It is a universal desire that the next generation would understand:
"That the generation to come might know them, even the children which should be born; who should arise and declare them to their children" ~ King David in Psalms 78