Books

When You Are Engulfed in Flames
By David Sedaris, Little, Brown, 2008, pp.

I've long held that the power of good writing trumps all other considerations. Is it by chance that sacred ancient texts, from the Pentateuch to the Gospels, the Tao Te Ching to the Bhagavad-Gita, are without exception great literature?

I submit that their survival and the reverence they command owes more to literary greatness than to doctrinal persuasiveness. Likewise, had Sigmund Freud not been a writer of genius, would his wackadoodle theories be anything more than a minor footnote?

In fairness, this notion sometimes breaks down, as in the case of Freud's acolyte-turned-rival, Carl Jung, whose impenetrable writing is akin to an archaeologist wielding a steam shovel.

Which brings me to David Sedaris — a non sequitur only if you make the mistake of considering humor a trivial genre. Our most beloved contemporary humorist, Sedaris makes his living not with jokes but autobiographical comic essays.

Last year, in an article titled "This American Lie," New Republic writer Alex Heard investigated some of Sedaris' stories, talking with the essayist's family and friends, and reported that significant portions — marketed as "nonfiction" — were made up.

The result was a minor firestorm, as indignant critics sprang to Sedaris' defense, suggesting Heard was too dense to understand humor and its need for exaggeration. Why would my critical brethren so readily set aside journalistic virtue?

The answer is that the nefarious Sedaris seduced us by being such a damn good writer. His undiminished power to transmute mundane elements of his daily life into writing that amuses and even enlightens is well displayed in his sixth collection, When You Are Engulfed in Flames.

Now middle-aged and an established writer who can afford to live in France, Sedaris confronts his own mortality. In shorter, more focused essays, Sedaris braces fear of death with a near-perfect blend of humor and pathos.

The best of this good lot is "Memento Mori," in which he buys a skeleton as a present for his longtime boyfriend, the artist Hugh Hamrick — only to have it start whispering to him: "You are going to die."

Those readers eager for more stories of Sedaris' childhood will be happy to know that while life with Hamrick takes center stage, the author's maladjusted family makes frequent appearances.

Now if Sedaris would only call his humor what it is: fiction drawn from life. It would be no less appealing.