I read something interesting somewhere the other day and the simple, arresting, argument was this: “The memoir-as-a-book as we know it is dead.”
Now that we live in the world of the instantly mundane with Twitter and Facebook and FriendFeed ruling our lives — and blogging ruining our days — nothing in a solitary life goes unscathed or unrecorded.
Have we no secrets? Have we no need for private confession? Have we no shame!
The simplest thought, the most complex theory, the wholly unimaginable whim are all now virtually published in our instant-on culture of media and technology.
We no longer hold in our contempt. We sloppily spew the most intimate notions about ourselves all over the internet and we feel special after because “we shared” and “we told” and we may have even “showed.”
The noise of us is becoming so overwhelmingly unbearable that we risk becoming wholly inconsequential in the wolfpack of the web.
Why bother writing a memoir while you can Tweet away all the important, private, touchstones of your life in the public square?
We’re giving up our literary lifeblood in Live Body Streaming and rendering all our propagated memes memeingless for a memoir.