Memoir: A History
At this point, we probably know more about what a memoir is not 鈥� it鈥檚 not a multicultural tear-jerker about a dying son (鈥淭he Blood Runs Like a River Through My Dreams,鈥� by Nasdijj), an Oprah-approved tale of rehab and regret (鈥�A Million Little Pieces,鈥� by James Frey), or an apple-chucking holocaust romance (鈥淎ngel at the Fence,鈥� by Herman Rosenblat) 鈥� than what a memoir is. So it seems like the perfect time for Ben Yagoda鈥檚 new book, the interesting but uneven Memoir: A History.
In a short 鈥淎uthor鈥檚 Note,鈥� Yagoda defines memoir as 鈥渁 book understood by its author, its publisher, and its readers to be a factual account of the author鈥檚 life.鈥� Over the next 11 chapters, he surveys not only memoir鈥檚 failures 鈥� it has averaged 鈥渁 scandal a year鈥� since 1960 鈥� but also its many successes.
But first, Yagoda details our own memoir-crazed moment. Between 2004 and 2008, the genre鈥檚 sales have jumped 400 percent; we now find father-son sets writing dueling memoirs and releasing them within a week of each other. Anecdotes like this offer a sort of rubbernecking appeal 鈥� if this isn鈥檛 bubble behavior, I don鈥檛 know what is 鈥� but Yagoda wants to prove that even they have a history: 鈥淓very single one of the books, and every piece of the debate about them, had a historical precedent.鈥�
With his strategy set, Yagoda goes back to the beginning. He moves at a Greatest Hits clip, bouncing from Abelard to Margery of Kempe. It all feels a little dry, and Yagoda seems to sense this, often straining for an anachronistic joke. About Pope Pius II, who immediately follows Dame Margery, Yagoda observes 鈥渉is tendency 鈥� common to so many politicians and chief executives 鈥� to make himself the hero of every story鈥�; in the very next paragraph, on the pope鈥檚 candor, Yagoda quips that 鈥渘o American president has dished such dirt.鈥� Such asides become only more irksome when Yagoda falls into a pattern 鈥� a paragraph or two per luminary, with a short historical argument or idea every 10th page.
Thankfully, these criticisms apply only to the first 100 pages. After that, everything 鈥� even the hokey tone 鈥� improves, as Yagoda switches from mere summaries to context and analysis. He traces, for example, how Mark Twain, Ulysses Grant, and P.T. Barnum are 鈥渆mblematic of a sea change in the kinds of Americans who were inspired to write their autobiographies.鈥� The numbers back him up: Memoirs by 鈥淓ntertainers鈥� increased from 1 percent of the genre鈥檚 output in the 1900s to 14 percent in the 鈥�60s 鈥� the same decade, incidentally, when 鈥淓ntertainers鈥� overtook 鈥淐lergy/Religious鈥� as memoir鈥檚 most popular subcategory.
It鈥檚 easy to connect this to the bookshelves of today, when Michael Phelps鈥檚 book can be 鈥渨ritten, typeset, bound, and on the shelves within four months after he was handed his final Olympic gold medal.鈥� But Yagoda shows that memoir鈥檚 rise was not a straight celebrity march. The 1930s were dominated by the 鈥渙rdinary American鈥� memoir, and Yagoda pays special attention to Clarence Day鈥檚 two smash hits, 鈥淟ife With Father鈥� and 鈥淟ife With Mother.鈥�
Day鈥檚 books also suggest that, in the history of memoir, changes can be more interesting than continuities. If Day wrote today, as Yagoda points out, he would center his story around the crippling arthritis that forced him to rely on an elaborate pulley system in order to write. Yet Day doesn鈥檛 mention it a single time. An even more pointed example of the then/now divide is Susanna Kaysen鈥檚 鈥�Girl, Interrupted,鈥� which opens with a facsimile of her case file from McLean Hospital 鈥� the same institution that, 30 years earlier, Sylvia Plath felt compelled to novelize in 鈥淭he Bell Jar.鈥�
Of course, a juicy correspondence is hard to pass up. In 1816, a writer at the North American Review did some digging and found that a popular memoir, 鈥淭he Narrative of Robert Adams, An American Sailor,鈥� was full of errors. This clearly anticipates the journalists who unearth falsehoods in some of today鈥檚 biggest memoirs, a subject to which Yagoda returns in his last (and best) chapter. Here, he revises his own 鈥渇actual account鈥� definition:
鈥淸I]naccuracy is a problem to the extent a memoir depicts identifiable people, depicts those people in a negative light, (demonstrably) gets gists as well as details wrong, is poorly written, is self-serving, or otherwise wears its agenda on its sleeve. The more of these things it does and the more egregiously it does them, the bigger the problem is.鈥�
This idea-driven cultural criticism leads to all kinds of interesting places. (Who knew Australia was 鈥減articularly susceptible鈥� to autobiographical fraud?) It also elevates the relevant history into something more than just memoir鈥檚 family tree.
Near the end of his book, Yagoda writes that 鈥渢he memoir boom, for all its sins, has been a net plus for the cause of writing,鈥� producing a lot of 鈥済ood鈥� books, if only a few 鈥済reat鈥� ones. The boom鈥檚 first history belongs in the former category. It might have been more if it had sustained the last chapter鈥檚 probing tone 鈥� perhaps by deepening its research and tightening its scope, as Yagoda did in his excellent 鈥淎bout Town: The New Yorker and the World It Made.鈥� Instead, his new book will appeal to history fans curious about memoir more than to memoir fans curious about history.
Still, it offers many more facts and curiosities like the ones cited here, and, in that sense, 鈥淢emoir: A History鈥� accomplishes what it set out to do.
Craig Fehrman is working on a PhD in English at Yale University in New Haven, Conn.
