Through these waves of critical reaction, the memoir has settled into a comfortable publishing niche. Not terribly surprising -- nonfiction has always sold better than fiction. So now the fresh writing program graduate is more likely to pen an earnest piece of "creative nonfiction" than an ironic roman-à-clef. And midlist writers hoping to revivify their careers consider weighing in with the requisite reminiscence. This is not necessarily a bad trend, even if the books are marketed less for their literary value than for their appeal to very specialized clientele. If you have lost a fortune to gambling or a child to a drunken driver, have found God or been hit by lightning, there's a memoir for you, and no doubt it'll come up on your personalized Amazon.com recommendation page.

It's always unfair to hold writers responsible for their P.R. -- unless they believe the hype themselves. So we must begin by forgiving Mary Karr. Her new memoir, "Cherry," is being shilled as a tale of sexual awakening -- not a bad idea for the trash-talking and succulent-simile'd Karr, but not actually what she wrote. "Cherry" is a fairly standard '70s coming-of-age tale, with more drugs and rock 'n' roll than sex. If you come to the book hoping to part the tightly folded legs on its cover, you will be disappointed.

The flap copy on "Cherry" further credits Karr's bestselling memoir, "The Liar's Club," with having "enough literary verve to spark a renaissance in memoir writing." As Mary Karr herself would say, don't believe that for a Yankee minute. Or: Say that again and I'll tear you a new asshole. So for the record, let us note that Karr by no means discovered this vein but is digging in a well-known mine. Nevertheless, just because she didn't invent the diamond doesn't mean hers isn't shiny.

Maya Angelou reads from "The Heart of a Woman"