Literary Deceit

Not one, but two huge stories of literary deceit today. In short: James Frey makes stuff up. Lots of it. And JT LeRoy may not probably doesn't even exist!

More over at Saheli's place.

Update: Turns out I even wrote that I doubted Frey's veracity back when I read his book.

I've just read a couple of books recently in the recovery memoir vein, which seems to be all the rage these days. Namely, Dry by Augusten Burroughs and A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. Both are intensely readable, though I suspect the latter suffers from some intense exaggeration. You almost hope so: no human being deserves to suffer capping two teeth and receiving two root canals without anaesthetic, even if they are in recovery and aren't allowed any sort of drugs. What makes Frey's book especially so gripping, whether he stretches the truth or not, is his sheer determination. That part must be true or he wouldn't be here to tell us about it.

Of course, turns out I was probably wrong about that last part.