The Good, the Bad, and the Bizarre

It does when the electromechanical eyes of a polygraph test are scrutinizing you. It matters when you're sworn under oath in court. But when it comes to nonfiction, is it that important for a book to live up to its genre?

Last December, a Holocaust survivor's memoir was canceled for publication. "The Angel at the Fence" tells of Herman Rosenblat's experience as a prisoner at Buchenwald concentration camp. During that time, a young Jewish girl, posing as a Christian from a local farm, passed him food over the fence separating his camp from the farm. This continued for seven months. Twelve years later in New York, the two met on a blind date. After discovering their shared history, they married.

Turns out, Rosenblat made the whole thing up. True, he was a Holocaust victim imprisoned at Buchenwald. But there was never a girl who sneaked him food.

Perhaps this book would've made it to publication (which would have been on the third day of this month) had it been written as fiction. After all, the main plot is just that— fiction. But why must we let a one-word label— "Fiction" or "Nonfiction"— decide the fate of what is nonetheless well-written literature?

Let's look at another instance. You may recall "A Million Little Pieces" by James Frey. In this controversial memoir, Frey gives a vivid account of how he overcame his drug addiction without undergoing the typical 'Twelve Step' rehab program.

Two years ago, it was discovered that the memoir contained fabrications. One involved the method that Frey's then-girlfriend used to kill herself. Another was Frey's criminal history. The media pounced on Frey. What's more, his publisher issued refunds to buyers claiming to have felt truly deceived by his embellishments.

I'd diagnose both these cases as American blindness. In Frey's story, what really mattered was that his account served as a source of inspiration and faith to real drug addicts. Do a few minor alterations change the fact that he conquered his cocaine addiction and alcoholism? I don't think so.

Say it was a pure work of fiction. His words would still lend hope to people suffering from drugs and alcohol, would they not?

As if the U.S. did not have enough labels, written work must also be categorized. Don't get me wrong, books retelling the World Wars and the lives of historical figures must be just that— nonfiction.

But when it comes to autobiographies of people we've never heard of— a drug addict from Ohio or a random Holocaust victim— is every word from their fingers crucial, as long as a historical event itself is not tweaked? When it comes to their own lives, should we care if there is truth or not, as long as we walk away enlightened, or simply, entertained?

Such writers are not on trial. They are not murder suspects facing a lie detector test. They're simply sharing and entertaining. Unless they're libeling, or retelling history while claiming to be non-fiction. The truth really does not matter.