Over at ZYZZYVA, I wrote about Deb Olin Unferth’s memoir, Revolution: The Year I Fell In Love And Went To Join The War, and laid out some thoughts on memoirs in general, a genre that I often have problems with, at least as it’s often practiced today. (This is my second piece for ZYZZYVA’s new blog; previously I wrote about David Bezmozgis’ novel, The Free World, which is a great book. Coincidentally, I saw Bezmozgis read with Unferth at the Hammer Museum Wednesday in LA.)
The review begins:
Save some long-mothballed, early twentieth-century avant-garde movements, memoir may be the only literary genre requiring a statement of principles. This applies to readers and writers alike. Do you expect a memoirist to show perfect recall, to reconstruct a past with vividly described environments, clear dialogue, and novelistic scenes? Or do you want a memoirist to admit the fallibility of her memory? Perhaps in an introductory preface, and to confess that some scenes, characters, and timelines may be elided, compressed, combined — i.e., do you mind if she makes things up, as long as it’s in the service of a good story? (Or are you looking for something else entirely?)
You can find the rest here.
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