Historically, biographies were the province of Great Men. Only army generals and presidents deserved a biography, and any lesser soul, say a minor aristocrat or a scientist, who attempted to publish his own story was mocked for hubris. Then the 20th century came along, and modern literature determined that everyone has a story that deserves to be told. Suddenly, peasants and farmers were fair game. But you still had to accomplish something noteworthy to publish a memoir – farmers weren’t supposed to speak for themselves.
Maybe it was Seinfeld’s show about nothing that convinced people the minutiae of someone else’s daily life could be interesting, but the 21st century rolled in with a new genre of memoirs by young unknowns. The first of these I read was Hypocrite in a Poufy White Dress, about growing up in a progressive Jewish family in New York, and I somehow found myself identifying with the protagonist because, well, I grew up, too. These quarter-life memoirs were strangely appealing, and proved that you don’t even really need a story if the story teller has chops. Read More
