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The Advertiser
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- The Advertiser
Is it ever okay for a memoir to stray from the truth?
Raynor Winn, author of bestselling memoir The Salt Path - also a film starring Gillian Anderson - has been accused of deception in her story of hardship and healing. In Winn's account, after their "forever home" is dispossessed, she and her partner, Moth (who faces a terminal diagnosis) decide to walk the famous 630-mile South West Coast Path along the dramatic cliffs of south-west England. This week, an Observer investigation cast doubt over key aspects of Winn's memoir, which has sold nearly 2 million copies worldwide. Her response? A statement through her lawyer that raises enduring questions about what it means to claim a story is the "truth": "The Salt Path lays bare the physical and spiritual journey Moth and I shared, an experience that transformed us completely and altered the course of our lives. This is the true story of our journey." Publisher Penguin Michael Joseph told The Bookseller it "undertook all the necessary pre-publication due diligence" and that "prior to the Observer enquiry, we had not received any concerns about the book's content". Number 9 Films and Shadowplay Features told the UK's Sky News their film was a "faithful adaptation" of a book. In the book, Winn claims she and her husband lost their home in North Wales after making a bad investment in a friend's business, leaving them liable for debts when it folded. The Observer report claims they lost the house after Winn defrauded her employer of about £64,000, then borrowed £100,000 (with 18 per cent interest) from a distant relative, secured against their house, to repay the money. The couple's house was reportedly repossessed after they were sued to recover the money owed. While in the book they wrote they had nowhere to go, the Observer reports that the couple "owned land in France on which they had previously stayed". The report also raised serious doubts about Moth's terminal diagnosis of corticobasal degeneration (CBD), a rare condition in the same family as Parkinson's disease. He has been living with it for 18 years, "with no visibly acute symptoms", according to the Observer, but it usually has a life expectancy of around six to eight years and the specialists the publication spoke to were "sceptical". While they still make headlines, do these scandals around fabrication have the same impact they once did, in today's era of "fake news"? And what is "truth" in memoir anyway? Of course, we've been here before - most infamously, perhaps, 20 years ago with James Frey, 1990s poster boy for literary pork pies. In 2005, key claims in his addiction memoir, A Million Little Pieces, were debunked by website The Smoking Gun, which posts legal documents, arrest records and police mugshots. Frey's US publisher, Random House, was sued by a group of readers for breach of contract and fraud. The publisher offered refunds to any reader with a receipt for buying the book. Culturally, Frey suffered a blow worse than anything financial: he was cancelled by Oprah. In last month's interview, Frey indignantly argued his book was "85 per cent true [...] as most memoirs are". His main retort, though, was more philosophical: "When Picasso makes a self-portrait, if it's not photorealist, is it invalid?" Is a true story akin to the facts? What does it matter, and to whom? In the case of A Million Little Pieces, the question was interrogated legally. To call something memoir is to make a contract with the reader around facts - and this was breached. In the case of The Salt Path, that process is still unfolding. But how exactly do we cordon off facts from embellishments? Is fact strictly tied to the observable: times, places, names, events, chronologies? Can something be true but not factual? What about feelings? Pain itself is known to be experienced in variable ways, and any hotel review will tell you one person's ultimate luxury is another's shabby hell. The task of the writer is, surely, to reflect the peculiarly specific feeling of their living. Fundamentally, memoirists always manipulate story. Memoir is not autobiography. It involves a careful selection of the parts of our life that fit together to make a narrative - and it can employ a vast spectrum of fictional techniques. Carmen Maria Machado's In the Dream House, for example, uses a disjointed narrative arc of strung-together genre tropes (like sci-fi and self-help) to tell the story of her time in an abusive relationship. Helen Garner has written about the careful act of shaping the "I" who appears in her nonfiction. "There can be no writing without the creation of a persona," she says. "In order to write intimately - in order to write at all - one has to invent an 'I'." But it is clear that for Garner, the creation of a persona is not mere invention. We know this because she has spoken, too, about the freedom fiction gives her to make things up - a freedom she no doubt embraced after criticism over her conflation of multiple people into a single person in The First Stone. Much of Frey's indignance now seems to stem from the absurdity of how low the bar has sunk when it comes to standards of truth. And he has a point. To know whether an image is counterfeit, now we have to hope it includes hands (notoriously difficult for AI to master). Ours is a world where social media, absent of checks and balances, is the only growing source of news media. A world where whole journals are compromised by the mass generation of fake science - and where we swallow wholesale the documentarian claims of "reality TV", while knowing it is scripted. In such a world, what's a little fuzziness around the exact reasons a couple found themselves without a home and walking the cliffs of Devon? The contract with a reader is an emotional one - to believe someone has lived through the story they are telling involves a different kind of investment of self: a deeper empathy, a willingness to sit with pain or joy or fear that was real for the writer. And that is worth honouring. Raynor Winn, author of bestselling memoir The Salt Path - also a film starring Gillian Anderson - has been accused of deception in her story of hardship and healing. In Winn's account, after their "forever home" is dispossessed, she and her partner, Moth (who faces a terminal diagnosis) decide to walk the famous 630-mile South West Coast Path along the dramatic cliffs of south-west England. This week, an Observer investigation cast doubt over key aspects of Winn's memoir, which has sold nearly 2 million copies worldwide. Her response? A statement through her lawyer that raises enduring questions about what it means to claim a story is the "truth": "The Salt Path lays bare the physical and spiritual journey Moth and I shared, an experience that transformed us completely and altered the course of our lives. This is the true story of our journey." Publisher Penguin Michael Joseph told The Bookseller it "undertook all the necessary pre-publication due diligence" and that "prior to the Observer enquiry, we had not received any concerns about the book's content". Number 9 Films and Shadowplay Features told the UK's Sky News their film was a "faithful adaptation" of a book. In the book, Winn claims she and her husband lost their home in North Wales after making a bad investment in a friend's business, leaving them liable for debts when it folded. The Observer report claims they lost the house after Winn defrauded her employer of about £64,000, then borrowed £100,000 (with 18 per cent interest) from a distant relative, secured against their house, to repay the money. The couple's house was reportedly repossessed after they were sued to recover the money owed. While in the book they wrote they had nowhere to go, the Observer reports that the couple "owned land in France on which they had previously stayed". The report also raised serious doubts about Moth's terminal diagnosis of corticobasal degeneration (CBD), a rare condition in the same family as Parkinson's disease. He has been living with it for 18 years, "with no visibly acute symptoms", according to the Observer, but it usually has a life expectancy of around six to eight years and the specialists the publication spoke to were "sceptical". While they still make headlines, do these scandals around fabrication have the same impact they once did, in today's era of "fake news"? And what is "truth" in memoir anyway? Of course, we've been here before - most infamously, perhaps, 20 years ago with James Frey, 1990s poster boy for literary pork pies. In 2005, key claims in his addiction memoir, A Million Little Pieces, were debunked by website The Smoking Gun, which posts legal documents, arrest records and police mugshots. Frey's US publisher, Random House, was sued by a group of readers for breach of contract and fraud. The publisher offered refunds to any reader with a receipt for buying the book. Culturally, Frey suffered a blow worse than anything financial: he was cancelled by Oprah. In last month's interview, Frey indignantly argued his book was "85 per cent true [...] as most memoirs are". His main retort, though, was more philosophical: "When Picasso makes a self-portrait, if it's not photorealist, is it invalid?" Is a true story akin to the facts? What does it matter, and to whom? In the case of A Million Little Pieces, the question was interrogated legally. To call something memoir is to make a contract with the reader around facts - and this was breached. In the case of The Salt Path, that process is still unfolding. But how exactly do we cordon off facts from embellishments? Is fact strictly tied to the observable: times, places, names, events, chronologies? Can something be true but not factual? What about feelings? Pain itself is known to be experienced in variable ways, and any hotel review will tell you one person's ultimate luxury is another's shabby hell. The task of the writer is, surely, to reflect the peculiarly specific feeling of their living. Fundamentally, memoirists always manipulate story. Memoir is not autobiography. It involves a careful selection of the parts of our life that fit together to make a narrative - and it can employ a vast spectrum of fictional techniques. Carmen Maria Machado's In the Dream House, for example, uses a disjointed narrative arc of strung-together genre tropes (like sci-fi and self-help) to tell the story of her time in an abusive relationship. Helen Garner has written about the careful act of shaping the "I" who appears in her nonfiction. "There can be no writing without the creation of a persona," she says. "In order to write intimately - in order to write at all - one has to invent an 'I'." But it is clear that for Garner, the creation of a persona is not mere invention. We know this because she has spoken, too, about the freedom fiction gives her to make things up - a freedom she no doubt embraced after criticism over her conflation of multiple people into a single person in The First Stone. Much of Frey's indignance now seems to stem from the absurdity of how low the bar has sunk when it comes to standards of truth. And he has a point. To know whether an image is counterfeit, now we have to hope it includes hands (notoriously difficult for AI to master). Ours is a world where social media, absent of checks and balances, is the only growing source of news media. A world where whole journals are compromised by the mass generation of fake science - and where we swallow wholesale the documentarian claims of "reality TV", while knowing it is scripted. In such a world, what's a little fuzziness around the exact reasons a couple found themselves without a home and walking the cliffs of Devon? The contract with a reader is an emotional one - to believe someone has lived through the story they are telling involves a different kind of investment of self: a deeper empathy, a willingness to sit with pain or joy or fear that was real for the writer. And that is worth honouring. Raynor Winn, author of bestselling memoir The Salt Path - also a film starring Gillian Anderson - has been accused of deception in her story of hardship and healing. In Winn's account, after their "forever home" is dispossessed, she and her partner, Moth (who faces a terminal diagnosis) decide to walk the famous 630-mile South West Coast Path along the dramatic cliffs of south-west England. This week, an Observer investigation cast doubt over key aspects of Winn's memoir, which has sold nearly 2 million copies worldwide. Her response? A statement through her lawyer that raises enduring questions about what it means to claim a story is the "truth": "The Salt Path lays bare the physical and spiritual journey Moth and I shared, an experience that transformed us completely and altered the course of our lives. This is the true story of our journey." Publisher Penguin Michael Joseph told The Bookseller it "undertook all the necessary pre-publication due diligence" and that "prior to the Observer enquiry, we had not received any concerns about the book's content". Number 9 Films and Shadowplay Features told the UK's Sky News their film was a "faithful adaptation" of a book. In the book, Winn claims she and her husband lost their home in North Wales after making a bad investment in a friend's business, leaving them liable for debts when it folded. The Observer report claims they lost the house after Winn defrauded her employer of about £64,000, then borrowed £100,000 (with 18 per cent interest) from a distant relative, secured against their house, to repay the money. The couple's house was reportedly repossessed after they were sued to recover the money owed. While in the book they wrote they had nowhere to go, the Observer reports that the couple "owned land in France on which they had previously stayed". The report also raised serious doubts about Moth's terminal diagnosis of corticobasal degeneration (CBD), a rare condition in the same family as Parkinson's disease. He has been living with it for 18 years, "with no visibly acute symptoms", according to the Observer, but it usually has a life expectancy of around six to eight years and the specialists the publication spoke to were "sceptical". While they still make headlines, do these scandals around fabrication have the same impact they once did, in today's era of "fake news"? And what is "truth" in memoir anyway? Of course, we've been here before - most infamously, perhaps, 20 years ago with James Frey, 1990s poster boy for literary pork pies. In 2005, key claims in his addiction memoir, A Million Little Pieces, were debunked by website The Smoking Gun, which posts legal documents, arrest records and police mugshots. Frey's US publisher, Random House, was sued by a group of readers for breach of contract and fraud. The publisher offered refunds to any reader with a receipt for buying the book. Culturally, Frey suffered a blow worse than anything financial: he was cancelled by Oprah. In last month's interview, Frey indignantly argued his book was "85 per cent true [...] as most memoirs are". His main retort, though, was more philosophical: "When Picasso makes a self-portrait, if it's not photorealist, is it invalid?" Is a true story akin to the facts? What does it matter, and to whom? In the case of A Million Little Pieces, the question was interrogated legally. To call something memoir is to make a contract with the reader around facts - and this was breached. In the case of The Salt Path, that process is still unfolding. But how exactly do we cordon off facts from embellishments? Is fact strictly tied to the observable: times, places, names, events, chronologies? Can something be true but not factual? What about feelings? Pain itself is known to be experienced in variable ways, and any hotel review will tell you one person's ultimate luxury is another's shabby hell. The task of the writer is, surely, to reflect the peculiarly specific feeling of their living. Fundamentally, memoirists always manipulate story. Memoir is not autobiography. It involves a careful selection of the parts of our life that fit together to make a narrative - and it can employ a vast spectrum of fictional techniques. Carmen Maria Machado's In the Dream House, for example, uses a disjointed narrative arc of strung-together genre tropes (like sci-fi and self-help) to tell the story of her time in an abusive relationship. Helen Garner has written about the careful act of shaping the "I" who appears in her nonfiction. "There can be no writing without the creation of a persona," she says. "In order to write intimately - in order to write at all - one has to invent an 'I'." But it is clear that for Garner, the creation of a persona is not mere invention. We know this because she has spoken, too, about the freedom fiction gives her to make things up - a freedom she no doubt embraced after criticism over her conflation of multiple people into a single person in The First Stone. Much of Frey's indignance now seems to stem from the absurdity of how low the bar has sunk when it comes to standards of truth. And he has a point. To know whether an image is counterfeit, now we have to hope it includes hands (notoriously difficult for AI to master). Ours is a world where social media, absent of checks and balances, is the only growing source of news media. A world where whole journals are compromised by the mass generation of fake science - and where we swallow wholesale the documentarian claims of "reality TV", while knowing it is scripted. In such a world, what's a little fuzziness around the exact reasons a couple found themselves without a home and walking the cliffs of Devon? The contract with a reader is an emotional one - to believe someone has lived through the story they are telling involves a different kind of investment of self: a deeper empathy, a willingness to sit with pain or joy or fear that was real for the writer. And that is worth honouring. Raynor Winn, author of bestselling memoir The Salt Path - also a film starring Gillian Anderson - has been accused of deception in her story of hardship and healing. In Winn's account, after their "forever home" is dispossessed, she and her partner, Moth (who faces a terminal diagnosis) decide to walk the famous 630-mile South West Coast Path along the dramatic cliffs of south-west England. This week, an Observer investigation cast doubt over key aspects of Winn's memoir, which has sold nearly 2 million copies worldwide. Her response? A statement through her lawyer that raises enduring questions about what it means to claim a story is the "truth": "The Salt Path lays bare the physical and spiritual journey Moth and I shared, an experience that transformed us completely and altered the course of our lives. This is the true story of our journey." Publisher Penguin Michael Joseph told The Bookseller it "undertook all the necessary pre-publication due diligence" and that "prior to the Observer enquiry, we had not received any concerns about the book's content". Number 9 Films and Shadowplay Features told the UK's Sky News their film was a "faithful adaptation" of a book. In the book, Winn claims she and her husband lost their home in North Wales after making a bad investment in a friend's business, leaving them liable for debts when it folded. The Observer report claims they lost the house after Winn defrauded her employer of about £64,000, then borrowed £100,000 (with 18 per cent interest) from a distant relative, secured against their house, to repay the money. The couple's house was reportedly repossessed after they were sued to recover the money owed. While in the book they wrote they had nowhere to go, the Observer reports that the couple "owned land in France on which they had previously stayed". The report also raised serious doubts about Moth's terminal diagnosis of corticobasal degeneration (CBD), a rare condition in the same family as Parkinson's disease. He has been living with it for 18 years, "with no visibly acute symptoms", according to the Observer, but it usually has a life expectancy of around six to eight years and the specialists the publication spoke to were "sceptical". While they still make headlines, do these scandals around fabrication have the same impact they once did, in today's era of "fake news"? And what is "truth" in memoir anyway? Of course, we've been here before - most infamously, perhaps, 20 years ago with James Frey, 1990s poster boy for literary pork pies. In 2005, key claims in his addiction memoir, A Million Little Pieces, were debunked by website The Smoking Gun, which posts legal documents, arrest records and police mugshots. Frey's US publisher, Random House, was sued by a group of readers for breach of contract and fraud. The publisher offered refunds to any reader with a receipt for buying the book. Culturally, Frey suffered a blow worse than anything financial: he was cancelled by Oprah. In last month's interview, Frey indignantly argued his book was "85 per cent true [...] as most memoirs are". His main retort, though, was more philosophical: "When Picasso makes a self-portrait, if it's not photorealist, is it invalid?" Is a true story akin to the facts? What does it matter, and to whom? In the case of A Million Little Pieces, the question was interrogated legally. To call something memoir is to make a contract with the reader around facts - and this was breached. In the case of The Salt Path, that process is still unfolding. But how exactly do we cordon off facts from embellishments? Is fact strictly tied to the observable: times, places, names, events, chronologies? Can something be true but not factual? What about feelings? Pain itself is known to be experienced in variable ways, and any hotel review will tell you one person's ultimate luxury is another's shabby hell. The task of the writer is, surely, to reflect the peculiarly specific feeling of their living. Fundamentally, memoirists always manipulate story. Memoir is not autobiography. It involves a careful selection of the parts of our life that fit together to make a narrative - and it can employ a vast spectrum of fictional techniques. Carmen Maria Machado's In the Dream House, for example, uses a disjointed narrative arc of strung-together genre tropes (like sci-fi and self-help) to tell the story of her time in an abusive relationship. Helen Garner has written about the careful act of shaping the "I" who appears in her nonfiction. "There can be no writing without the creation of a persona," she says. "In order to write intimately - in order to write at all - one has to invent an 'I'." But it is clear that for Garner, the creation of a persona is not mere invention. We know this because she has spoken, too, about the freedom fiction gives her to make things up - a freedom she no doubt embraced after criticism over her conflation of multiple people into a single person in The First Stone. Much of Frey's indignance now seems to stem from the absurdity of how low the bar has sunk when it comes to standards of truth. And he has a point. To know whether an image is counterfeit, now we have to hope it includes hands (notoriously difficult for AI to master). Ours is a world where social media, absent of checks and balances, is the only growing source of news media. A world where whole journals are compromised by the mass generation of fake science - and where we swallow wholesale the documentarian claims of "reality TV", while knowing it is scripted. In such a world, what's a little fuzziness around the exact reasons a couple found themselves without a home and walking the cliffs of Devon? The contract with a reader is an emotional one - to believe someone has lived through the story they are telling involves a different kind of investment of self: a deeper empathy, a willingness to sit with pain or joy or fear that was real for the writer. And that is worth honouring.
New Statesman
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- New Statesman
The Salt Path and the sins of memoir
Photo by Steve Tanner/Black Bear It is not, to put it mildly, a good look. At a time when household finances are stretched and the government is cutting benefits for the sick and disabled, author Raynor Winn stands accused of exaggerating her husband's illness and misrepresenting the circumstances of their destitution in her 2019 memoir The Salt Path – and getting rich via book sales and film rights in the process. Cue fury from betrayed readers (and, undoubtedly, a few jealous writers) on X, and a spate of solemn op-eds on the line between fact and fiction. As the author of a memoir myself, I admit the story left me unscandalised. Yes, the allegations, if accurate, make a mockery of The Salt Path's claim to be nonfiction. But to tell you the truth – and would I, dear reader, do anything else? – I've come to have low expectations of the average memoir. The genre defined by fidelity to the facts is, on average, a poor guide to deeper truths about human beings. If you want to understand people, you're better off reading fiction. To be sure, few books beat a brilliant memoir. The best – Primo Levi's Auschwitz testimony If This Is a Man, James Baldwin's searing race chronicle Notes of a Native Son, Annie Ernaux's spare sociological masterpieces – combine the artistry of a great novel with the electric frisson of self-exposure. But for every thrilling confession by a Thomas De Quincey or a Tove Ditlevsen, there are countless frauds and duds. Naturally, the frauds get the headlines. Winn joins a long and ignoble list of autobiographers accused of deception. The canonical modern example is James Frey, unmasked on Oprah after fabricating parts of his addiction memoir A Million Little Pieces (and recently profiled by the New York Times, unrepentantly recalling the scandal from a house full of Matisses and Picassos bought with his royalties). Before Frey came Binjamin Wilkormiski, author of a feted Holocaust memoir who turned out to be neither a survivor nor Jewish. Wilkormiski was defended by fellow 'survivor' Laura Grabowski, who swore she remembered him from Birkenau – until it transpired she was in fact Laurel Wilson, author of her own hoax memoir of ritual abuse, Satan's Underground. But frauds are much rarer than duds. Since the 'memoir boom' of the late Eighties and Nineties – led by superb originals like Mary Karr's The Liar's Club and Frank McCourt's Angela's Ashes – the demand for truly revelatory personal narrative has outstripped supply. A deluge of mediocrity has filled the gap. The journalist Will Storr recently detailed how AI has already perfected the bland tone and nebulous detail that makes for a viral Substack confessional. So much for the hope – floated by David Shields in his manifesto Reality Hunger – that autobiography might offer an answer to the artifice of modern life. Of course, in all literary forms the dross outweighs the gold. But the paradox of memoir is that the form premised on truth is usually so poor at delivering it. That's because we are, on the whole, thoroughly unreliable narrators of our own lives. One problem lies with the fallibility of memory. It isn't just that we repress unbearable truths, as Freud taught. Psychologists have shown how memory is itself a storyteller, weaving together experience, imagination, beliefs and memories of memories into a plausible version of what might have happened – and then selling it to us as the truth. Even if memory were trustworthy, a host of factors militate against truthful autobiography. The story of your life is the story of your most important relationships. And a good story, as every creative writing teacher knows, requires conflict and moral nuance. To tell your life story, you have to reveal unflattering things about the people you love: parents, lovers, siblings. Few have the stomach for that. Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe Nor are most people willing to write unflatteringly about themselves. When I tell people I've written a memoir, they sometimes tell me about some episode from their own life they'd like to write about. These stories are often fascinating – but not always for the reasons their tellers think. Often the most interesting parts are the ones they're unwilling or unable to see. People want to tell their life story with all the moral and psychological nuance stripped out, leaving them as virtuous victims or heroic survivors (or, seemingly in Winn's case, both). All good memoirs find solutions to these problems. A certain ruthlessness with the feelings of others can help: I admire the cold honesty of Rachel Cusk's memoir of motherhood A Life's Work, even as I wince for her children. Some depend on a kind of masochistic self-exposure: see Karl Ove Knausgaard. Another solution is to be French. Their less censorious literary culture than ours licences greater self-disclosure, producing the Nobel-winning Ernaux as well as the undeniably narcissistic but peerless Emmanuel Carrère. It can help if you've already cut ties with family members before you write about them. One reason many classic memoirs – like Jeanette Winterson's Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal? – are about escaping religious upbringings is that their authors are relatively free from the usual ties of filial loyalty. Or you can wait until the people you're writing about are dead, as Edmund Gosse did before writing his immortal account of childhood Father and Son. Some of my favourite memoirs find creative formal ways of engaging with the slipperiness of self-narration. In Night of the Gun David Carr applies the methods of investigative journalism to reconstruct his own past as a crack addict. Lauren Slater's Lying: A Metaphorical Memoir is a stunning Nabokovian experiment that recounts the author's struggle with a rare variant of epilepsy characterised by compulsive fabulism. But successful memoirs are exceptions. We're much better at seeing through other people's hypocrisies and contradictions than our own. That insight underpins the narrative revolution pioneered by Jane Austen: the blending of a character's innocent perspective with the author's more knowing one. If Elizabeth Bennett had written her own story, it would be a banal tissue of vanity and delusion. But when Austen told it, she invented 'free indirect speech' – and the modern novel. The messy truth behind the Salt Path may well turn out to be neither Winn's inspiring redemption story nor the cynical fraud imagined by her online critics. Perhaps it's something more interesting: a case of two people backed into a corner by bad luck and terrible decisions, who stumbled onto a slightly too perfect escape – and found themselves trapped in their own distortions once it succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. Whatever actually happened, it would make a gripping story. Just don't expect Raynor Winn to be the person to tell it. [See also: The Salt Path is Scientology for the middle classes] Related
Scroll.in
4 days ago
- Entertainment
- Scroll.in
‘The Salt Path' scandal: Defending a memoir's ‘emotional truth' is a high-risk strategy
Raynor Winn, author of the award-winning memoir The Salt Path, which was recently adapted into a film, has been accused of 'lies, deceit and desperation'. Writing in The Observer, reporter Chloe Hadjimatheou claims that Winn left out significant facts and invented parts of the story. The Salt Path follows a transformative 630-mile trek along England's South West Coast Path that Winn took with her terminally ill husband Moth, after they lost their home and livelihood. The Observer article claims that aspects of both the story of losing their home and Winn's husband's illness were fabricated. In a statement on her website, Winn has defended her memoir, calling the claims 'grotesquely unfair' and 'highly misleading'. There's a long list of memoirs which have been shown to be problematic. James Frey's recovery memoir A Million Little Pieces (2003) was allegedly exaggerated. In 2006, he apologised for fabricating portions of the book. Worse, Binjamin Wilkomirski's feted Holocaust survivor memoir F ragments: Memories of a Wartime Childhood (1995) was completely fake. Wilkomirski's real name was Bruno Dössekker and he was not a Holocaust survivor; he had simply invented his 'memories' of a death camp, though he seemed to believe they were true. Trust the artist or trust the tale But, for readers, how much does this matter? Novelist DH Lawrence wrote that readers should: 'Never trust the artist. Trust the tale.' As readers of The Salt Path, we fear for Raynor and Moth as they desperately try to escape drowning from a freak high tide at Portheras Cove. We are relieved when we hear that Moth's terminal disease was 'somehow, for a while, held at bay'. The origin of the word fiction is from the Latin fingere, which means not to lie, but to fashion or form. All memoirs – indeed, all texts, from scientific articles to history books to bestselling novels – are 'formed' or 'shaped'. Writing doesn't just fall from a tree; we make it, and it reveals the world by mediating the world. But this idea, that writing is a 'shaping', is why this case matters. Writing, done by oneself, or by a ghostwriter (or even by AI), has conventions, not-quite-rules that underlie its creation and reception. Some of these are in the text (the enemies eventually become lovers); some are outside the text itself (you really can judge a book by its cover). But most conventions are both inside and outside at the same time. Works by historians have footnotes to sources, so you (and other historians) can check the claims. Each scientific article refers to many others, because each article is just one tiny piece of the whole puzzle on which a huge community of scientists are working, and the extensive references show how this piece fits (or doesn't). Non-fiction follows conventions, while novelists can do whatever they want, of course, to challenge or obey the conventions (that's one reason why novels are exciting). Memoir has a particularly important convention, revealed most clearly by the historian Stefan Maechler's report on Wilkomirski's fraudulent memoir. Maechler argued that Wilkomirski broke what the French critic Philippe Lejeune called the 'autobiographical pact', a contract of truth between the author and the reader. For Lejeune, however, this pact is not like a legal agreement. A memoir, unlike a scientific article, need only put forward the truth as it appeared to the author in that area of their life. While the information needs to be accurate to some degree, its level of verifiability is less than a legal document or work of history. Much more important for Lejeune is the harder-to-pin-down fidelity to meaning. After all, many meaningful things – falling in love, for example, or grief – happen mostly inside us and are hard to verify. Even more, the developing overall shape of our life as it seems to us is not really a historical fact, but our own making of meaning. For Lejeune, in a memoir, this emotional truth is more significant than the verifiable truth. Playing with 'emotional truth' The author of The Salt Path seems to have leaned into this idea. In her first statement after The Observer 's piece, she claims that her book 'lays bare the physical and spiritual journey Moth and I shared, an experience that transformed us completely and altered the course of our lives … This is the true story of our journey'. How, after all, could one verify a 'spiritual journey'? However, I don't fully agree with Lejeune. Perhaps our inner and outer worlds are not as separate as he supposes. Our public actions, including sharing facts, show who we are as much as our words describing our inner journeys. In a memoir, the verifiable truth and the emotional truth are linked by a kind of feedback loop. As readers, we allow some degree of playing with verifiable truth: dialogue is reconstructed, not recorded; we accept some level of dramatisation; we know it's from one person's perspective. But we also make a judgment about these things (there's no fixed rule, no science to this judgment). If there's too much reconstruction, too much dramatisation, we begin to get suspicious about the emotional truth, too: is this really how it felt for them? Was it honestly a spiritual journey? And, in turn, this makes us more suspicious of the verifiable claims. By contrast, the novelist's pact with the reader admits they fake emotional truth, which somehow makes it not fake at all: that's one reason why novels are complicated. This is why defending a memoir's 'emotional truth' is a high-risk strategy. We know from our own lives that people who are unreliable in small (verifiable) things are often unreliable in large (emotional, meaningful) ones. So, for readers, the facts behind The Salt Path matter less in themselves and more because each question points to a larger issue about the book's meaning. When you call someone 'fake', you don't really mean that 'their factual claims are inaccurate', but that they are somehow inauthentic, hollow or – it's a teenager's word, but still – phoney. Once the 'autobiographical pact' looks broken in enough small details, the reader no longer trusts the teller or the tale. In a lengthy statement published on her website in which she addresses the allegations in detail, Winn said that the suggestion that Moth's illness was fabricated was an 'utterly vile, unfair, and false suggestion' and added: 'I can't allow any more doubt to be cast on the validity of those memories, or the joy they have given so many.' Robert Eaglestone is Professor of Contemporary Literature and Thought, Royal Holloway University of London.
Sydney Morning Herald
09-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Sydney Morning Herald
James Frey wrote his new book in 57 days. He doesn't want Oprah to read it
Long before cancel culture, Frey and Winfrey laid out the blueprint. First comes the cancellation, then comes the backlash to the cancellation, and eventually, the dust settles. Or does it? While Frey admits to lying, he maintains that 'about 85 per cent' of the memoir was true. However, when discussing the controversy, he remains coolly detached, explaining that his perspective has shifted. 'If you look at a page one of A Million Little Pieces, it's clearly manipulated information, right?' says Frey. 'I long said I've changed everybody's name, I changed identifying characteristics, but the problem was I blew up the rules of publishing.' Frey points to the recent rise of autofiction, a genre that blends elements of autobiography and fiction, as proof that the punishment didn't fit the crime. 'My book didn't fit into their classification system, so they got mad. Say what you want about A Million Little Pieces, it's still read, it's still purchased, and it's still an iconic part of culture.' Frey, 55, is not one for life lessons, but if the encounter with Winfrey taught him one thing? 'Writing is not about making a f–king talk show host happy,' he says. Instead, these days, he prefers to entertain himself with his work, which was the driving inspiration behind his latest novel, Next To Heaven, published by Authors Equity. The plot centres on a group of uber-wealthy friends, living in the fictional gated community of New Bethlehem in Connecticut (based on the real town of New Canaan, where Frey has lived since 2013), whose collective boredom inspires them to host a swingers party. Their perfect lives are turned upside down when one of the guests turns up dead, kicking off a classic small-town, big mystery, whodunit. In Next To Heaven, everyone is beautiful, rich and awful. Hedge fund traders, bitcoin bros and trophy wives, sleeping with each other one day, gossiping about each other the next. The book slots neatly into the 'eat-the-rich' genre that has dominated popular culture; TV series such as Succession, The White Lotus, and more recently, Your Friends & Neighbours have fuelled our fascination with the 1 per cent. Unsurprisingly, he's already sold the TV rights. 'I enjoy those series as a consumer, but I wanted to take people further behind the curtain, show them that money is the most potent drug on the planet; it wreaks the most havoc and does the most damage,' he says. Loading 'I live in a highly insulated, heavily protected bubble filled with some of the wealthiest people in the world,' adds Frey, who describes himself as the poorest motherf---er in the area. 'A town of 19,000 people with somewhere between 20 and 40 billionaires. And when you can have and do anything you want, you look for bigger thrills.' Given his reputation, he's quick to clarify the characters are not based on New Canaan's billionaire set; instead, they just 'showed up'. 'There are always two or three books dancing around in my head, and when one of them starts to assert itself, the characters just show up.' This is a side-effect of his curious creative process, driven by what Frey labels 'the fury', an intense and self-destructive streak that he manages through a combination of therapy, medication and meditation. 'When I'm not writing, I have all these systems in place to manage it, but when I start writing, it all has to stop. I stop taking my daily antidepressants, I stop meditating, I usually walk every morning and night, I stop that too. Then I can tap into this reservoir of emotions and unleash myself.' He says he spent up to 16 hours a day at his desk, and the book was completed in just 57 days. 'I only write one draft of a book, and I don't use outlines,' he says. 'Contractually, I have what we jokingly call the 'You get what you get, and you don't get upset' clause, which means the publisher has to accept what I give them,' he says. You get what you get, and you don't get upset might also describe Frey's response to the book's critical reception. Reviews have been mixed. The New Yorker praised his prose as 'endearingly excitable,' but ultimately concluded, 'James Frey's new cancelled-guy sex novel is as bad as it sounds.' Meanwhile, Kirkus Reviews raved about his return, saying, 'Frey's literary affectations don't get in the way of a good time'. Either way, Frey positions himself as genuinely unmoved.
The Age
09-07-2025
- Entertainment
- The Age
James Frey wrote his new book in 57 days. He doesn't want Oprah to read it
Long before cancel culture, Frey and Winfrey laid out the blueprint. First comes the cancellation, then comes the backlash to the cancellation, and eventually, the dust settles. Or does it? While Frey admits to lying, he maintains that 'about 85 per cent' of the memoir was true. However, when discussing the controversy, he remains coolly detached, explaining that his perspective has shifted. 'If you look at a page one of A Million Little Pieces, it's clearly manipulated information, right?' says Frey. 'I long said I've changed everybody's name, I changed identifying characteristics, but the problem was I blew up the rules of publishing.' Frey points to the recent rise of autofiction, a genre that blends elements of autobiography and fiction, as proof that the punishment didn't fit the crime. 'My book didn't fit into their classification system, so they got mad. Say what you want about A Million Little Pieces, it's still read, it's still purchased, and it's still an iconic part of culture.' Frey, 55, is not one for life lessons, but if the encounter with Winfrey taught him one thing? 'Writing is not about making a f–king talk show host happy,' he says. Instead, these days, he prefers to entertain himself with his work, which was the driving inspiration behind his latest novel, Next To Heaven, published by Authors Equity. The plot centres on a group of uber-wealthy friends, living in the fictional gated community of New Bethlehem in Connecticut (based on the real town of New Canaan, where Frey has lived since 2013), whose collective boredom inspires them to host a swingers party. Their perfect lives are turned upside down when one of the guests turns up dead, kicking off a classic small-town, big mystery, whodunit. In Next To Heaven, everyone is beautiful, rich and awful. Hedge fund traders, bitcoin bros and trophy wives, sleeping with each other one day, gossiping about each other the next. The book slots neatly into the 'eat-the-rich' genre that has dominated popular culture; TV series such as Succession, The White Lotus, and more recently, Your Friends & Neighbours have fuelled our fascination with the 1 per cent. Unsurprisingly, he's already sold the TV rights. 'I enjoy those series as a consumer, but I wanted to take people further behind the curtain, show them that money is the most potent drug on the planet; it wreaks the most havoc and does the most damage,' he says. Loading 'I live in a highly insulated, heavily protected bubble filled with some of the wealthiest people in the world,' adds Frey, who describes himself as the poorest motherf---er in the area. 'A town of 19,000 people with somewhere between 20 and 40 billionaires. And when you can have and do anything you want, you look for bigger thrills.' Given his reputation, he's quick to clarify the characters are not based on New Canaan's billionaire set; instead, they just 'showed up'. 'There are always two or three books dancing around in my head, and when one of them starts to assert itself, the characters just show up.' This is a side-effect of his curious creative process, driven by what Frey labels 'the fury', an intense and self-destructive streak that he manages through a combination of therapy, medication and meditation. 'When I'm not writing, I have all these systems in place to manage it, but when I start writing, it all has to stop. I stop taking my daily antidepressants, I stop meditating, I usually walk every morning and night, I stop that too. Then I can tap into this reservoir of emotions and unleash myself.' He says he spent up to 16 hours a day at his desk, and the book was completed in just 57 days. 'I only write one draft of a book, and I don't use outlines,' he says. 'Contractually, I have what we jokingly call the 'You get what you get, and you don't get upset' clause, which means the publisher has to accept what I give them,' he says. You get what you get, and you don't get upset might also describe Frey's response to the book's critical reception. Reviews have been mixed. The New Yorker praised his prose as 'endearingly excitable,' but ultimately concluded, 'James Frey's new cancelled-guy sex novel is as bad as it sounds.' Meanwhile, Kirkus Reviews raved about his return, saying, 'Frey's literary affectations don't get in the way of a good time'. Either way, Frey positions himself as genuinely unmoved.
