Mixing the earnestness of philosophy with the deceptive art of autobiography soon enough turns the author into a figment of his own imagination. Even the most well-intentioned among us can fall prey to the pattern that makes anthropologists into cult leaders, as who we are becomes an aspect of what we teach, and increasingly we are forced to fictionalize who we are as a mere instrument of that instruction.
This is a mistake I would never make myself, you understand: one of the most influential authors of the 20th century (lamentably) was Tuesday Lobsang Rampa —although the extent to which that was his real name, or he ever was a real person, or how many of the books attributed to that name were actually written by him, is all very dubious indeed.
I am reasonably certain that the one book he claimed was written by his own cat ("Fifi Greywhiskers") was in fact entirely written by a human being.