Who ever heard, indeed, of an autobiography that was not (interesting)? I can recall none in all the literature of the world.
I write fiction and I’m told it’s autobiography. I write autobiography and I’m told it’s fiction. So, since I’m so dim and they’re so smart, let them decide what it is or isn’t.
Several years ago an eccentric publisher suggested an autobiography and offered a large enough advance against royalties to excite both the larcener who dwells inside my skin and that other tenant who lusts for acclaim and insists that no one is better qualified to bestow it than himself. Since autobiography is the only vocation on […]
Great nations write their autobiographies in three manuscripts the book of their deeds, the book of their words, and the book of their art. Not one of these books can be understood unless we read the two others; but of the three the only quite trustworthy one is the last.
Only when one has lost all curiosity about the future has one reached the age to write an autobiography.
A poet’s autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote.
Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir.
A writer’s work may be a coded autobiography, but only a very close friend could decipher it.
History is the essence of innumerable biographies.
An autobiography is an obituary in serial form with the last installment missing.