Believe It or Not
Memoir fabulists getting caught means the system is working.
In 1837, the American Anti-Slavery Society published the life story of a fugitive slave who went by the name of James Williams. The book, narrated in Williams' first-person voice, told of his harsh treatment on an Alabama plantation and the torture he had seen inflicted on his fellow slaves. The veracity of the book was almost immediately challenged by an Alabama newspaper editor, who called it "a notorious libel upon our country" and printed a letter claiming that Williams was in fact Shadrach Wilkins, a fugitive not only from slavery but from charges of attempted murder. The Anti-Slavery Society initially denied the charges, but the accusation didn't go away, and the society directed two of its members to investigate. These men reluctantly concluded that "many of the Statements made in the said Narrative were false." Weeks later, the society discontinued sales of the book. James Williams/Shadrach Wilkins, meanwhile, was nowhere to be found.
So the fake memoir—currently in the news with the daily-double outing of Love and Consequences and Misha: A Mémoire of the Holocaust Years—is by no means a phenomenon that originated with James Frey. In fact, the history of autobiography is full of them. A 1937 book called Sisters of the Road was supposedly the memoirs of Boxcar Bertha Thompson, a female hobo; years later, the real author was revealed to be Ben Reitman, a Chicago physician and reformer. The Education of Little Tree, the autobiography of a Cherokee boy growing up in the 1930s, was published in 1976 and became a young-adult classic. Actual author: Asa Carter, a white Alabaman who had once been a Ku Klux Klan member and a speechwriter for George Wallace. So many holes have been found in Lillian Hellman's autobiographical trilogy of An Unfinished Woman, Pentimento, and Scoundrel Time that the books couldn't keep you dry on a drizzly day.
But is it such a terrible thing that so many lying memoirists have been exposed? On the contrary: It's evidence that the system works. (Full disclosure: I am writing a book on memoir for Riverhead Books, the publisher of Love and Consequences.) Consider the case of James Williams' tale of his life as a slave. The discovery that it was a fraud chastened the abolitionists who had been behind the book. They continued to seek out and publish slave narratives, but post-Williams, knowing that their very cause was at stake, they put a finer point on the truthfulness of the tales they were distributing. They began sending their authors on the lecture circuit to answer questions from all corners and, equally important, to show that they existed, scars and all. Scores of slave narratives—including The Autobiography of Frederic Douglass, a classic of American literature—were published after the Williams affair, and it's universally acknowledged that these memoirs were an important factor in the abolition of slavery.
And this is pretty much how things have happened since then: The perpetrators have eventually been found out. Or, to be more precise, the more brazen or audacious the lie, the greater the likelihood of exposure.
In the wake of the Frey and now the Jones scandals, there's been hand-wringing about the need for fact-checking—or lie-detector tests or something!—at publishing houses. But you're never going to stop people from making stuff up. It is a fact of human nature that a substantial number of people have the capacity and inclination to lie. Some of them are pathological and lie because they are compelled to or just for the fun of it. But generally people lie only when a) they sense that people will believe them, and b) they will be rewarded (with respect, attention, career advancement, money, pity, or something else they covet).
Ben Yagoda is author of About Town: The New Yorker and the World It Made and the just-published How to Not Write Bad: The Most Common Writing Problems and the Best Ways to Avoid Them. He is a professor of English and journalism at the University of Delaware.