For literary pundits, the memoir genre is one of the subjects du jour. I’ve been listening to serious debates on a number of podcasts on whether it’s OK for writers to include fictional events in books that they then dub as “memoirs.” One memoirist referred to her own as “true,” but not necessarily “factual,” a distinction that I frankly don’t buy (much as I did enjoy her books).
Here are eleven memoirs I’ve enjoyed and which, as far as I can tell, are both truthful and factual:
“How I Became Hettie Jones,” by writer Hettie Jones, who married LeRoi Jones, n/k/a Amiri Baraka.
“Minor Characters,” by the writer Joyce Johnson, who was a minor character in Jack Kerouac’s life, though he was a major character in hers.
“Shakespeare and Company,” by that Parisian bookshop’s owner, Sylvia Beach, who published James Joyce’s “Ulysses” when nobody else would (and who largely supported Joyce and his family while they were in Paris).
“Baltimore’s Mansion,” by Canadian writer Wayne Johnston, about growing up in Newfoundland.
“Wishful Drinking,” by Carrie Fisher, a delightful transcription of her current standup routine.
“Love By The Glass,” by Dorothy J. Gaiter and John Brecher, a married couple who write for twelve years, until December 2009, wrote the wine column for The Wall Street Journal.
“The Road From Coorain,” by Jill Ker Conway, president of Smith College from 1975-1985, now a visiting professor at MIT, originally from Australia.
“The Glass Castle,” by former gossip columnist and writer Jeannette Walls.
“Never Have Your Dog Stuffed,” by actor and director Alan Alda.
“Kitchen Confidential,” by bad-boy chef, travel host, and writer Anthony Bourdain.
“Dreams From My Father,” by, of course, our President, Barack Obama.
A bonus: I don’t know any of the authors, but I’m pretty sure none of these books were ghostwritten!