Memoirs are tricky business. There’s something both astoundingly brave and utterly foolish about inviting others into the deepest crevices of one’s life. Memoir may be second only to poetry as the genre that is most likely to create overly sensational or sentimental writing. But, like poetry, when memoir is done well, it is like chocolate cake—perfect in its simplicity. I enjoy reading memoirs, not because of any need I have to compare my personal history with those of their authors. In many cases, there is no comparison.