In the world of book sales, what “romantasy” is to fiction, autobiography/memoir is to non-fiction. There is an undeniable appetite for the purportedly true stories of famous or otherwise public figures whose lives are shrouded in PR or private interests.

Moreover, autobiographies have a kind of inherent meaning or telos — disparate elements come together to form a narrative which always will have been meaningful. Part of our desire to read such memoirs is certainly prurient, a wish to know more than we are entitled; but part is also inspirational or “admirational”, nourishing the belief or hope that our lives, too, will end up having been meaningful.

And yet, there is nothing uncomplicated about the task of telling the story of our lives. There is an ethical flaw at the heart of such a task: given how given we are to self-justification and self-absolution, how ungenerous we can be in response to the actions and intentions of others, how forgiving we can be to our own inconsistencies and hypocrisies, and how blind we often are to the effects our own behaviour to other people’s lives, who’s to say we are adept at narrating our stories truthfully?

And yet our story is our own, and there is a certain humiliation, a certain violence, that accompanies an inability to tell it — for our lives to be wholly narrated by someone else, as though we were a footnote to their story.

What, then, are some of the ways that we can discover truthfulness “in the innermost parts” (as the Psalms put it)? There are other forms of life-writing that would seem to evade or at least temper the temptation to self-deception. The example of Helen Garner’s decision to publish her diaries — raw, flawed, achingly human — would stand as a morally credible counterpoint to the sheer overwhelming excess of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle. Then there’s also the auto-fictional experiment of Rachel’s Cusk’s Outline trilogy, whereby readers come to know the central character only through her attentive conversations with others. One of the most remarkable recent examples is Helen Elliott’s memoir Eleven Letters to You, which is less an autobiography than it is an account of the friendship, truthfulness, decency of others — Elliott is simply “the hinge holding it all together”.

Could it be that we simply cannot know ourselves, the meaning of our lives, without the provocation and perspective of others, who help us come to see that the truth about ourselves is most often discernible through our actions and relationships?