Chekhov’s Mistess

Memoir No More

Last week Bud registered some discontent with the tree-killing spate of memoirs that inundate us, the American reader. Bud asked (and answered) Why are these books getting published?

Here’s my take.

90% of these books are meant to serve one and only one purpose—dollar aggregation. There is simply no other reason why a book by Paris Hilton, Jack Welch, or Jose Canseco would be published. No other reason than someone thought they could make money off it. These memoirs belong to the exact same category of pointless material objects that includes such all-around favorites as snowglobes and diamond rings.

9% of these books are stories of personal carthasis that should have remained in a personal journal or a navel-gazing blog. The only possible value these books might have beyond making $$$ for their publisher are for whatever personal growth authors experienced while writing them. They are perhaps worthwhile to authors’ immediate family and close personal friends, but, really, we have utterly no business reading them.

1% of these memoirs are bonified art and/or historically valuable. For instance, Vladimir Nabokov’s Speak, Memory (published in the 1950s) would fit into this category. Unfortuantely, I really can’t think of any memoir published since that fits into this category. Perhaps there are some. Who knows; as quantum physics has instructed us, anything is possible. (I imagine that the works of some essayists and prose stylists would fit in as well, but unless you are on a vacation that includes drinks with cocktail umbrellas, you should be spending your time elsewhere.)

Now then, we are left with one question. It’s a depressing fact that Paris Hilton’s memoir brings in considerable bucks to a publisher. Can we justify the existence of P. Hilton’s book on the basis that it’s possibly subsidizing several works of genuine literary value?

I think the answer is No. First off, this memoir craze encourages publishers to throw huge advances at celebrities in hopes of pulling in that blockbuster memoir. We all know how well this business model has worked for Hollywood.

Second, even though the authors of these memoirs are huge stars that get massive TV coverage every time they burp, their books somehow seem to suck down immense sums of a publisher’s advertising budget. Wouldn’t it be nice if instead of promoting P. Hilton’s memoir, publishers put those dollars into getting new and interesting authors noticed?

So, in other words, I can’t see much good that these books are doing. I, for one, would be happier without them.

comments

I’d add Annie Dillard’s An American Childhood to that 1%.  It’s a recklessly beautiful memoir.

    – amcorrea (03/31  at  01:27 AM)

I ran a link to Alan Cheuse’s essay that appeared in the Chicago Trib about the misery-loves-company ethos that runs rampant in the memoir aisle. Cheuse basically says the key to a good memoir is love. Come over and check it out. Wendi

    – The Happy Booker (04/04  at  01:06 PM)

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About this Post

• Posted by: Bud Parr
• Date: March 28, 2005
• Filed Under:
  Wise Men Fish Here: Literature

• Comments:2
• Links to this Post: Technorati

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