What Montaigne tells us about himself is peculiarly, charmingly specific and daily: he is on the short side, has a loud, abrasive voice, suffers from painful kidney stones, scratches his ears a lot (the insides itch), loves sauces, is not sure radishes agree with him, does his best thinking on horseback, prefers glass to metal cups, moves his bowels regularly in the morning, and so on. It is as if the self were a new continent, and Montaigne its first explorer.<br /> Phillip Lopate, The Art of the Personal Essay<br /> <br />
Characteristics<br />PERSONAL<br />Exploration<br />Confusion<br />Focus on style<br />Poetic language<br />Reflection<br />Artful truth<br />“Just the facts, Ma’am”<br />Information<br />Thesis<br />Tries to be unbiased<br />Third person<br />Truth<br />Creative Non Fiction <br />NOT Creative Non Fiction<br />
Perhaps, it never did snow that August in Vermont; perhaps there never were flurries in the night wind, and maybe no one else felt the ground hardening and summer already dead even as we pretended to bask in it, but that was how it felt to me, and it might as well have snowed, could have snowed, did snow.<br />Joan Didion, “On Reading a Notebook”<br />
What happened to the writer is not what matters; what matters is the larger sense that the writer is able to make of what happened. For that the power of a writing imagination is required.<br />Vivian Gomick “Why Memoir Now”<br />
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