always a fiction of sorts, isn’t it. What we know to be true about ourselves are the stories we tell. Those stories are never photographic recreations, even when they seem most real. They’re a mosaic of memories, ours and others, filtered through everchanging lenses created by the need of the moment. Faulkner said that if there were thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird, then the truth of the blackbird was the fourteenth view.

So now we have another Famous Author unmasked. JT Leroy. Which means we’re yet again going to have to endure another round of “my my’s…mea culpas…and so on…’”

People, people, people! Such naivete is unseemly in a world so thoroughly postmodern.

The question to answer is not why these authors did what they did; it’s why we’re so upset about it. As if we don’t already live in a world rife with falsehood.