Just the facts
So the Smelmooo sent me this link about a little brouhaha over A Million Little Pieces, supposedly a memoir, containing information that's not really factual.
I read this book over the summer, and my reaction was a big fat "Eh." I thought the style was grating, the pacing felt wrong, and I didn't particularly care about most of the characters(although at the very, very end of the book, I realized I sort of cared about some of them), including the author.
Yes, I thought of the author as a character, because of course a memoir isn't a strict retelling of the facts, anymore than a work of fiction is pulled strictly from the author's imagination, without a speck of resemblance to actual people or events.
I took a great class in college called Living Writers, where we read a book a week, and every Thursday the author came and talked about the work and read from a work in progress. It was actually a ton of work -- we had to submit questions for the authors and got graded on those, and had to keep a journal of reflections, and we had to do a bunch of background research on the authors' other work in addition to reading the assigned text, but it was one of my easiest As ever. I loved listening to the authors, and when we read collections of short stories (like Amy Hempel's Tumble Home, which I loved), I would look up previously published versions of the stories in the New Yorker or Harper's or wherever, and look at how they evolved over time, and it got me so fascinated by the process of writing.
Anyway, I digress. One of our most common discussions was about the line between memoir and fiction, and the distinction between truth and fact. For me, truth always trumped fact, and it still does. I don't care if an author remembers word-for-word a discussion with his counselor in rehab; if the depiction of it in the book feels right, and resonates, and feels true, that's good enough for me. Memoir is the hot genre at the moment -- and it's a loooooooong moment, given that it was the hot genre in 1998 when I took that class -- so it obviously makes sense, if you want to sell books, to package and market a "based on a true story" novel as a memoir. So I don't really see what the big deal is whether Frey embellished or invented some of the elements of the story.
What I'd be more interested in -- although I won't, because I really didn't care for the book in the first place -- is to read the book again more closely to see if there's a shift in tone or style that makes it clear what parts are fact and what parts are fiction. I'm not sure there would be, because I don't think Frey is a strong enough writer that he captures the truth of many of the pieces of the story in a compelling way, but I'm modestly curious.
I think that my head is there also because I'm reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, which I expect I'll finish on the plane tomorrow before working through my stack of dusty New Yorkers. That book wasn't marketed as a memoir, but it's a somewhat fictionalized account of the author's childhood, and as I read it I often think that a particular encounter or experience must have really taken place in her life, because she captures its essence so perfectly, in a way that resonates so powerfully. And maybe it's fact and maybe it's fiction, but it's darn good writing either way, and I care about her and I sympathize with her and she makes me laugh and cry and smile, and she knows how to use punctuation and proper sentence structure, so bonus points over you, Mr. Frey.
The element of truth is what I liked about the movie The Family Stone, too; there was a lot about the movie that was totally implausible, but at the same time it felt true and real, and that trumped logic. Not so in the Jazzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Singer, which I watched last night, in part on fast-forward mode, because BORRRRRRRRR-RING. You know I love my Neil Diamond, but yeeesh. Implausible and untrue, plus impossibly narcisstic -- which I also felt about A Million Little Pieces, to some extent -- so it gets the biggest thumbs-down so far of all the movies on my list.
As Edith Ann would say, "And that's the truth....pbbbbbbbbbbbbt!"
I read this book over the summer, and my reaction was a big fat "Eh." I thought the style was grating, the pacing felt wrong, and I didn't particularly care about most of the characters(although at the very, very end of the book, I realized I sort of cared about some of them), including the author.
Yes, I thought of the author as a character, because of course a memoir isn't a strict retelling of the facts, anymore than a work of fiction is pulled strictly from the author's imagination, without a speck of resemblance to actual people or events.
I took a great class in college called Living Writers, where we read a book a week, and every Thursday the author came and talked about the work and read from a work in progress. It was actually a ton of work -- we had to submit questions for the authors and got graded on those, and had to keep a journal of reflections, and we had to do a bunch of background research on the authors' other work in addition to reading the assigned text, but it was one of my easiest As ever. I loved listening to the authors, and when we read collections of short stories (like Amy Hempel's Tumble Home, which I loved), I would look up previously published versions of the stories in the New Yorker or Harper's or wherever, and look at how they evolved over time, and it got me so fascinated by the process of writing.
Anyway, I digress. One of our most common discussions was about the line between memoir and fiction, and the distinction between truth and fact. For me, truth always trumped fact, and it still does. I don't care if an author remembers word-for-word a discussion with his counselor in rehab; if the depiction of it in the book feels right, and resonates, and feels true, that's good enough for me. Memoir is the hot genre at the moment -- and it's a loooooooong moment, given that it was the hot genre in 1998 when I took that class -- so it obviously makes sense, if you want to sell books, to package and market a "based on a true story" novel as a memoir. So I don't really see what the big deal is whether Frey embellished or invented some of the elements of the story.
What I'd be more interested in -- although I won't, because I really didn't care for the book in the first place -- is to read the book again more closely to see if there's a shift in tone or style that makes it clear what parts are fact and what parts are fiction. I'm not sure there would be, because I don't think Frey is a strong enough writer that he captures the truth of many of the pieces of the story in a compelling way, but I'm modestly curious.
I think that my head is there also because I'm reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, which I expect I'll finish on the plane tomorrow before working through my stack of dusty New Yorkers. That book wasn't marketed as a memoir, but it's a somewhat fictionalized account of the author's childhood, and as I read it I often think that a particular encounter or experience must have really taken place in her life, because she captures its essence so perfectly, in a way that resonates so powerfully. And maybe it's fact and maybe it's fiction, but it's darn good writing either way, and I care about her and I sympathize with her and she makes me laugh and cry and smile, and she knows how to use punctuation and proper sentence structure, so bonus points over you, Mr. Frey.
The element of truth is what I liked about the movie The Family Stone, too; there was a lot about the movie that was totally implausible, but at the same time it felt true and real, and that trumped logic. Not so in the Jazzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Singer, which I watched last night, in part on fast-forward mode, because BORRRRRRRRR-RING. You know I love my Neil Diamond, but yeeesh. Implausible and untrue, plus impossibly narcisstic -- which I also felt about A Million Little Pieces, to some extent -- so it gets the biggest thumbs-down so far of all the movies on my list.
As Edith Ann would say, "And that's the truth....pbbbbbbbbbbbbt!"
2 Comments:
You know, a couple of weeks ago an acquaintence told me how much she loved that A Million Little Pieces. Is it mean of me to have sent her the link the to The Smoking Gun article saying it was partially fabricated?
-S
By
Anonymous, at 3:00 PM
Interesting thoughts. I haven't read the book, but I was hearing all the insanity and kept asking, "does this make the book 'bad' because it isn't true?"
I am currently reading "Reading Lolita in Tehran" and am fascinated by it. For all I know, her "memories" of things are a combination of her memories, those of others, things she heard on a street corner once, etc. In fact, she goes so far as to explain that she has changed some of the information to protect her characters.
I am loving the book, because it is a well told and interesting story. My point (if I have one) is that I don't read the book saying "what's true? what's false?" but instead get lost in the lives of the characters becaused it is well written.
From what you've said, Frey's book isn't bad now because it is falsified, but simply because it wasn't a very good book to begin with!
By
KARCHAMB, at 9:31 PM
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