There’s a memoir inside everyone, they say. But is there?
I don’t write about books I haven’t read. Thus I am at a disadvantage discussing the now-notorious memoir “†about a 1000-km U.K. coastline trek by two betrayed, destitute, friendless Brits, one of them nearing death from a terminal illness that was apparently cured after they found healing through nature, sorry, . I threw the book out partway and now I can’t even check the quotes.
It was made into a movie in 2024 Gillian Anderson and a beardy Jason (“White Lotus”) Isaacs, with both actors and authors looking pretty chipper despite all that invented suffering plus getting sand in their bits, so difficult to dislodge.
“The Salt Path” and its hasty sequels (“The Wild Silence†and “Landlinesâ€) have since been authoritatively labelled as a  spun by the charmingly named “ and her husband Moth.†They are actually Sally and Timothy Walker, he’s nowhere near death and may never have been, and they may not have even taken they describe.
I bought the book in May 2020, my Amazon permanent record informs me, because it was from and a reliable review called it “a tale of triumph; of hope over despair; of love over everything.†I’m not a sentimental person. I thought it would be cosy.
Memoirs are hugely popular, especially misery memoirs because so many people are miserable. to replicate Salt were straining unknown writers like bags of jam, personal stories dripping out.
Journalists had years to check up on the Winn/Walker tale but the scoop was published last month by The Observer, just sold off by the Guardian newspaper which is now gnashing its teeth just like Penguin and reduced to headlines like “â€
Previously memoirists had to have been born into a cult like Tara Westover in “Educated,†or have sawed their own arm off while rock-climbing as in the film “.†Then Cheryl Strayed went on a walk, god bless her.
In recent years, nobody checked your lies about plodding around Dorset “Wildâ€-style in the rain. You just had : “We were parked on a shingle beach, beneath vast dark skies, as thunder rolled overhead and fork lightning hit the sea, forming an arc of brilliance across the horizon. It was elemental, connected, powerful beyond words, as I stood on the beach with a tiny child in my arms,†etc.
Any smart writer who painted herself in woad could write a bestseller. As economic times worsen, I note that nature cures, which are free, are conspicuously popular. Thanks to RFK Jr.’s campaign against medicine, you’ll soon be boiling weeds to treat your ADHD.
Solitary tramps were always a literary tradition, see Orwell etc., but Salt made them a fetish. Take “,†just published but doomed.
Words like  or even mulch, are red flags now.Â
Our lives are soaked in falsity. AI writes our prose for us and invents our photos. You say you wrote a memoir? Perhaps. But did you live it?Â
Error! Sorry, there was an error processing your request.
There was a problem with the recaptcha. Please try again.
You may unsubscribe at any time. By signing up, you agree to our and . This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google and apply.
Want more of the latest from us? Sign up for more at our newsletter page.
To join the conversation set a first and last name in your user profile.
Sign in or register for free to join the Conversation