document.write('\x3clink rel=\x22stylesheet\x22 type=\x22text/css\x22 href=\x22http://assets.tumblr.com/fonts/gibson/stylesheet.css?v=3\x22\x3e\x3col class=\x22tumblr_posts\x22\x3e\x0a    \x0a        \x0a            \x3cli class=\x22tumblr_post tumblr_text_post\x22\x3e\x0a                \x0a                    \x3cdiv class=\x22tumblr_title\x22\x3eStories of Self (Vol. 3)\x3c/div\x3e\x0a                \x0a                \x0a                \x3cdiv class=\x22tumblr_body\x22\x3e\x0a                    \x3cfigure data-orig-width=\x22741\x22 data-orig-height=\x22993\x22 class=\x22tmblr-full\x22\x3e\x3cimg src=\x22http://40.media.tumblr.com/b65c736e1305812f8710960bf3322159/tumblr_inline_nrrjf5EbJz1rglck1_500.jpg\x22 alt=\x22image\x22 data-orig-width=\x22741\x22 data-orig-height=\x22993\x22 width=\x22500\x22 height=\x22670\x22\x3e\x3c/figure\x3e\x3cp\x3e\x3ci\x3e\x3ca href=\x22http://anniebmiller.com/\x22 target=\x22_blank\x22\x3eAnnie Miller\x3c/a\x3e, \x3c/i\x3eMask Foot Face\x3ci\x3e. 2015. Oil and oil pastel on canvas, 96in x 72in.\x26nbsp;\x3c/i\x3e\x3c/p\x3e\x0a\x3cp\x3e\x3ci\x3eStories of Self is a(n approximately) monthly essay series by Scott F. Parker that explores the nature of the composed self through conversations with memoirists, theorists, artists, and possibly musicians.\x3c/i\x3e\x3cbr\x3e\x3c/p\x3e\x0a\x3cp\x3e\x3cb\x3eI Am Who I Am\x26nbsp;\x3c/b\x3e\x3cb\x3ewith Marya Hornbacher\x3c/b\x3e\x3c/p\x3e\x0a\x3cp\x3eMarya Hornbacher\x26rsquo;s first book, \x3ci\x3eWasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia\x3c/i\x3e, opens with an epigraph from Nietzsche\x26rsquo;s \x3ci\x3eThus Spoke Zarathustra\x3c/i\x3e: \x26ldquo;The awakened and knowing say: body I am entirely, and nothing else; and soul is only a word for something about the body.\x26rdquo; It\x26rsquo;s a provocative way to begin a book about eating disorder, which we might be inclined to think of in starkly dualistic terms: the body under attack by something\x26mdash;call it \x3ci\x3emind\x3c/i\x3e, call it \x3ci\x3esoul\x3c/i\x3e\x26mdash;distinctly nonphysical.\x3c/p\x3e\x0a\x3cp\x3eWhat Hornbacher borrows from Nietzsche shows the true menace of the illness: the attack is self-reflexive.\x3c/p\x3e\x0a\x3cp\x3eTreating the person as a whole, rather than as separate mind and body only circumstantially localized, I see in eating disorders the kind of unstable paradox that invites my reflection on memoir\x26mdash;the foggy notions of self personified, literalized.\x3c/p\x3e\x0a\x3cp\x3eAfter reading Marya Hornbacher\x26rsquo;s memoir \x3ci\x3eMadness: A Bipolar Life \x3c/i\x3eas well as \x3ci\x3eWasted\x3c/i\x3e,\x3ci\x3e \x3c/i\x3eI wrote to ask for an interview. She suggested we meet at Spyhouse, a coffee shop only a block from my apartment. At the cafe I saw a woman seated at an outside table along busy Hennepin Avenue wrapped in flowing fabric against the autumn wind and the building\x26rsquo;s shade. Her short, layered hair resembled the author\x26rsquo;s photo of \x3ci\x3eMadness\x3c/i\x3e, but because she was engaged in close conversation with the man across the table from her, I nearly didn\x26rsquo;t stop. I hesitated just long enough for her to look up and make eye contact, at which point I said, \x26ldquo;Marya?\x26rdquo;\x3c/p\x3e\x0a\x3cp\x3e She offered her hand and said, \x26ldquo;We didn\x26rsquo;t know how we\x26rsquo;d recognize you.\x26rdquo;\x3c/p\x3e\x0a\x3cp\x3eI wondered about her \x3ci\x3ewe\x3c/i\x3e. Was she suggesting that he would stay for the conversation? I hoped not, but after introductions he made no move to leave, so I accepted a chair and sat down. Only later, replaying the scene in my mind, did it occur to me that he was there to assess the safety of leaving Marya in my company. He left after a few minutes.\x3c/p\x3e\x0a\x3cp\x3eSitting across from me, Marya looked comfortable and softer, less combustible, than the image I took from her books. An iced coffee and a pack of Camels were on the table in front of her. I had wanted to start with general questions about the memoir form, but as I made small talk and began to introduce the subject she jumped in and was off and running.\x3c/p\x3e\x0a\x3cp\x3e\x26ldquo;There are so many things you hesitate to say about memoir,\x26ldquo; she said, waving a cigarette \x22Do you mind if I smoke? But it\x26rsquo;s not an easy experience, writing and then living one down. There wasn\x26rsquo;t a lot of research on the impact of memoir on readership. There was a surge right around the time I wrote \x3ci\x3eWasted\x3c/i\x3e. Elizabeth Wurtzel in \x3ci\x3eProzac Nation\x3c/i\x3e, myself, Kathryn Harris\x26rsquo;s \x3ci\x3eThe Kiss\x3c/i\x3e. It all got very overblown. A lot of press around those books had nothing to do with the books and certainly nothing to do with the people who wrote them.\x26rdquo;\x3c/p\x3e\x0a\x3cp\x3e\x26ldquo;You mean that idea that memoir was going to ruin literature,\x26rdquo; I said.\x3c/p\x3e\x0a\x3cp class=\x22read_more_container\x22\x3e\x3ca href=\x22http://logger.believermag.com/post/124926348344/stories-of-self-vol-3\x22 class=\x22read_more\x22\x3eKeep reading\x3c/a\x3e\x3c/p\x3e\x0a                \x3c/div\x3e\x0a            \x3c/li\x3e\x0a        \x0a\x0a        \x0a\x0a        \x0a\x0a        \x0a        \x0a        \x0a        \x0a        \x0a\x0a                        \x0a    \x0a\x3c/ol\x3e\x3cscript src=\x22http://assets.tumblr.com/assets/scripts/tumblelog.js?_v=93bb152582dbb408afc826f52e6676b4\x22\x3e\x3c/script\x3e\x0a\x3cmeta name=\x22keywords\x22 content=\x22stories of self\x22 /\x3e');