Yet another memoir has been revealed as a fake. This time it's a little more egregious than, say, James Frey's little sojourn into setting his pants on fire, since the author this time claimed to have been a halfie drug-and-gun runner for the Bloods and was, in fact, white and from Sherman Oaks, which as we understand it, saw its bloodiest years during the drug war as the setting of It's Garry Shandling's Show. The book's called "Love and Consequences" and it's being recalled entirely by the publisher, and the author (one Margaret Seltzer) is crying to the New York Times.
OK, fine, so they caught someone else cashing a book advance check on lies. Good for everyone.
Problem is, we're starting to wonder if any of the great memoirs of our age would stand up to the sort of scrutiny that books seem to be getting. Hey, listen, don't get us wrong, we're all for confabulators getting called out in the town square and all. It's just that, you know, as we peruse our own bookshelf, we're starting to wonder if, say, the memoirs of Mary McCarthy, Elie Wiesel, Bob Dylan, Vladimir Nabakov, or Anais Nin would check out 100%. And also, we're starting to wonder if we care. And should there be a different standard of truth between, say Bill Clinton, Augusten Burroughs, Primo Levi, and Iceberg Slim? Or, perhaps more curiously -- do established authors and personalities already get a pass on the factcheck just because of who they are, and if so: is that fair?
Seriously, we're at a loss on this one, so if anyone has any thoughts on the matter, have at it in the comments.
