Memoirs Make Me Mad

The death of the novel has been prophesied for some time now.  Who would deliver the final killing blow?  Would television’s fast-paced schedule wreak havoc on our ability to sit down and read a book?  Would film ultimately bury novels under the multiple layers of cinematography and acting that novels could suggest but our imaginations might fail to deliver us?

Nope.  It’s always those you least suspect.  The novel was killed in its own medium.  There’s no space for novels anymore in between all the memoirs.

This is a pretty upsetting article, but I guess we can’t be that surprised.  Memoirs, even the best of them, are easily digestible.  Nothing chewy and complicated like symbols or metaphors to worry about in here, no linguistic tricks or innovations, no degree required.  Also–ohmygosh!–they’re true stories!  We can learn from them.

This is pathetic.  What value is there in the story of other people?  The article suggests this is a natural follow-up to a voyeuristic entertainment society fostered by reality TV, but I think the problem is much worse than that.  What we’re seeing here is an explosion of ego on behalf of the memoir writers and a surrender of ego on behalf of the hordes who clear them off of the shelves.

Without getting too philosophical, a reader is engaged in a novel.  Even the corniest of pulp thrillers requires our participation.  Even the worst of romance prose knows to tease the imagination instead of effortlessly gratifying it.  Novels, challenging or not, are the playgrounds of language and our imagination, they tap what makes us alive.  A memoir is, even at its best, a glorified lecture.  It’s funny–nobody wants to listen to their teachers, but the mob is more than happy to crowd around the latest idol memoir writer.