Unreliable (The Lifespan of a Fact)

Some of the things that I like, I like because they carry strong sentimental associations from my youth (either the carefree and innocent early portion or the misspent but hella-fun latter span). Some, I like because they appeal to my interests (and the greater the number of interests reflected, the stronger the allure, in a cumulative, sometimes geometric, progression). Some, I like because they are simply inherently bizarre and make the world a more magical place, despite/because of having no connection whatsoever to any of my memories or pre-existing curiosities (unless you count a general fascination with the broadest strokes of totally gonzo weirdness).

And sometimes I like something because in some fundamental way the thing in question is just another instance of me out there in the world. And, fits of self-loathing notwithstanding, I do like myself, so it’s always a bit of a gas to come across some external and independent object – like a book – that encapsulates me. Not a book that contains what I would create if I were to have the time, energy and discipline to write one myself, but a book that contains what I would be if I were somehow reincarnated as a collection of pages between covers.

So, The Lifespan of a Fact, by John D’Agata and Jim Fingal. The bad news is that once I’ve basically crowned a book with the egomaniacal praise of being a Rosetta Stone for my own brain, there’s not much else I can say about it. In the same vein, I suppose, if I were to put together some kind of required reading/viewing list for this blog, identifying the texts that illuminate what it’s all based on and what it’s all about, The Lifespan of a Fact would probably be on the top of that list. It’s fairly light on the pop culture references, although it does dwell quite a bit on the Las Vegas Strip, which is one of my favorite epicenters of sensory overload in the world. On the other hand, the more immediate subject matter is depressing (I don’t want to give away too much, but I’ll say at least that much as fair warning).

More importantly, it’s a meditation (and not always a tranquil one) on writing and storytelling, and the stories behind stories; on creative acts that allow us to process the events in our lives, and the blurry line between facts and truth, emotional honesty and documentation. And it manages to be all of those things in less than a hundred pages (let’s hear it for quick reads!) which utilize a compelling typographical structure (Yes, I am an enormous nerd/former layout copy editor, I know) to guide the reader simultaneously through both a magazine essay and an escalating argument between the essay’s author and the magazine’s fact-checker, with the argument literally wrapped around the essay on each page and color-coded to differentiate between agreement and dispute.

It’s good stuff, and it’s very very me stuff. I can’t require anyone to check it out, but I can recommend it, for whatever that’s worth. Of course, you may never read this blog, or really any piece of first-person writing, the same way again. But that’s not actually a bad thing at all.