Started reading Harrison’s final book last night. He writes in the introduction that he was thinking of writing a memoir, an addition to an earlier one. “To be honest,” he writes, “which I am often not. . . .” And then family members demand to be left out. So, “I decided to continue the memoir in the form of a novella. At this late date I couldn’t bear to lapse into any delusions of reality in nonfiction.” He had troubles, he says, deciding on the title: minstrel? mongrel?
At the beginning of my Immortal for Quite Some Time, I claim that it is not a memoir, noting that the photos are as unreliable as the prose.
No delusions of reality in my nonfiction. And mongrels have better genes than purebreds.