I recently realized that I am completely and absolutely uninterested in redemption as a theme in literature. I’m not sure if this is an artistic preference or a philosophical one, but it seems like a good thing to know about myself; I can add “redemptive” to the list, along with “spunky” and “quirky,” and save myself some time and money at the new-books table at the bookstore.

In any case, I’ve found one answer to why I dislike memoir, for the most part; this piece by Daniel Mendelsohn and this one by Michiko Kakutani explain it nicely. Kakutani observes: “The current memoir craze has fostered the belief that confession is therapeutic, that therapy is redemptive and that redemption equals art.” I don’t subscribe to at least two of these beliefs, possibly all three.