Books and Their Authors

As a student of literature in college, I was often witness to the ongoing debate regarding the importance of author background or biography in understanding works.  Personally, I was always of the mind that it wasn't necessary to have this background.  Most literary creations stem from personal experience, of course, but my thinking was reader understanding wouldn't necessarily be dependent on a full review of the author's background.  This all changed for me earlier this week when I picked up Jeanette Winterson's memoir,
Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?.

When I lived in Philadelphia, Winterson came highly recommended by a manager of mine at Borders Books & Music (dear Borders:  I miss you.)  The passion with which he explained the works that he had read gave me an itch to experience them myself.  Well, several years later I finally picked up Art & Lies.  When I put this book down, I felt as though I had just attempted a reading in a foreign language in which I had no training.  The theme, the dialogue...everything seemed one too many times removed for my understanding.  However, Winterson remained this enigmatic figure for me.  I believe part of this was that no reading had ever left me so puzzled, so it was partially a challenge, which always increases determination on my end.

A few months ago, I was flipping through the New York Times book review, and I discovered that Winterson had this new memoir pending release.  The review shed it in a fairly good light, so I decided that I would pick it up and explore it.  As soon as I started to read it this week, I quickly realized that Winterson and her works did not need to be dismissed from my queue of reading.  The memoir is rich with thought, a whole spectrum of emotion and some pretty amazing history.  Even more, though, I've realized that my education in Winterson's past experiences and life will definitely help inform my reading of her works.  My guess is that I would have actually continued to stuggle with understanding had I not picked up her memoir.  So, I guess the verdict is so much for my initial conviction that an author's biographical background is not helpful in one's reading of a work.

As much as I'm consumed by an impulse for infinite organization and categorization, I think this is something I'll have to leave in the more flexible bucket of thought.  I guess I'll also have to lighten up a bit in my harsh judgment of memoirs.  In recent years, I feel we've been inundated by this genre, and it's left me with this feeling that reality television is also taking over the print medium.  But, this is one case when I can safely say that the tale was worth being told.