One of the iconic scenes from the 1979 sci-fi masterpiece Alien features the protagonist, Ripley, confronting the decapitated but conversational head of antagonist android Ash. She discovers with horror that Ash knows all about the mysterious, unstoppable extraterrestrial horror that’s been brutally killing the crew of her spaceship. Shockingly, he was even was tasked with helping the alien.
“How do we kill it, Ash?” Ripley interrogates. “There’s gotta be a way of killing it. How? How do we do it?”
“You can’t,” replies Ash. “You still don’t understand what you’re dealing with, do you? A perfect organism.” He goes on. “…I admire its purity."
The interaction reminds me of how I felt reading a recent Wall Street Journal essay penned by memoirist Patric Gagne, I Always Knew I Was Different. I Just Didn’t Know I Was a Sociopath. The essay is adapted from her memoir that debuts with prestigious publisher Simon & Schuster today, April 2. The title? Sociopath: A Memoir. According to the publisher’s website, it is the most anticipated book of 2024 by Vulture, LitHub, The Guardian, and Cosmopolitan.
“A fascinating, revelatory memoir revealing the author’s struggle to come to terms with her own sociopathy and shed light on the often maligned and misunderstood mental disorder.” -Simon & Schuster
I read the WSJ piece with Ash-like reverence. Who was this Patric Gagne? Raised in the Los Angeles area, Gagne was the daughter of a very successful music executive. So charmed was her life that she references appearing in People magazine as a six or seven year old being held by Ringo Starr. Gagne weaves this photographed interaction into her sociopath memoir.
“…I am literally stealing the glasses off his face. I was not the first child to ever play with a grown-up’s glasses. But based on the spectacles currently perched on my bookshelf, I’m pretty sure I was the only one to swipe a pair from a Beatle.”
What’s the thrust of this memoir? Is there a journey of some kind? Notable deeds to laude or examine? Not apparently. Gagne is a sociopath from an affluent LA background and that’s the story. She steals things as a girl and feels no remorse. Completely fascinated by herself, she goes on to earn a PhD exploring her sociopathy with an academic lens. It very much seems like we’re to follow the journey of an upper crust sociopath living an otherwise very normal, banal existence.
But we are not quite at perfect organism level yet. The cherry on top is that the call to action of the essay—and the book at large—is for you and I to extend our empathy and compassion to the sociopaths of the world. By extension, are we not also asked to celebrate her sociopathy with all of our society’s literary accolades? More than anything, we’re supposed to PAY this sociopath for being a sociopath by purchasing the memoir about being a sociopath. The essay concludes:
“…After years of study, intensive therapy and earning a Ph.D. in psychology, I can say that sociopaths aren’t “bad” or “evil” or “crazy.” We simply have a harder time with feelings. We act out to fill a void. When I understood this about myself, I was able to control it.
It is a tragic misconception that all sociopaths are doomed to hopeless, loveless lives. The truth is that I share a personality type with millions of others, many of whom have good jobs, close-knit families and real friends. We represent a truth that’s hard to believe: There’s nothing inherently immoral about having limited access to emotion. I offer my story because I know I’m not alone.”
Yes, dear reader! The proud sociopath—who grew up with Ringo Starr as a house guest, got a PhD studying her sociopathy, deserves our attention and praise for existing as a sociopath, and who we should pay to be a professional sociopath—now implores us to empathize with all sociopaths. To clarify, the definition of a sociopath is, “A person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behavior and a lack of conscience.”
Sociopathy should be normalized, don’t you see?! We’re just misunderstood, a sort of disadvantaged minority that requires special love and care. I’m not capable of extending such compassion to you normies, oh no! But please, you must do so to me.
The Origins of the Sociopathic “Me”moir were Beautiful and Democratic
I’m sure there are MFA graduates who have a firmer grasp of modern literary history than I do, but I broadly believe the roots of what would become the sociopathic “me”moir are in the 1990s with genuinely great works like The Liar’s Club by Mary Karr (1995). This lauded memoir follows the author’s dysfunctional, riveting childhood in a small industrial 1960s Texan town where Agent Orange is manufactured and oil drilled. Karr debates with her mom about where she shot Daddy in the kitchen on page one. There’s trauma galore, but also humanity.
When I try to place myself in the zeitgeist of the times, the work was pretty revolutionary. Memoir was long the seminole work of great men: presidents, athletes, business tycoons, influential intellectuals, and the like. Sometimes a writer who really earned their bone fides in the literary world could spill it all on the page toward the end of their careers. But that a writer like Mary Karr would dive into what most may call “real America” was a legitimately exciting affair. Dwelling on the trauma of childhood in a working class setting was less the norm. That the author could weave these stories into the American experience packed a punch. It was a story about a girl, yes. But it was also a story about a specific time and place. It was a story about us.
These stories, especially from a female perspective, are the kind people were expected to lock up and not mention again. Yet here we were, reading it in a mainstream book with stark honesty. Other authors and publishers took note, and the entire form of memoir became more democratized. So ends Act 1.
Act 2, again broadly, started to kick in the mid 2000s to 2010s with works like Eat, Pray, love: One Woman’s Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia by Elizabeth Gilbert in 2006. A dominate commercial and cultural success, the book even received a film adaptation staring Julia Roberts. The story follows the author, a well to do American woman in her thirties, who travels the world post-divorce on a spiritual quest of sorts. She “finds herself” largely through the practices of eating good food, praying, and romantic love. Another notable work in Act 2 was Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail by Cheryl Strayed that had similar success in 2012. This book also got a major film adaptation, this time starring Reese Witherspoon.
The shift between Act 1 and Act 2 of this arc to Sociopath: A Memoir are clear. Liar’s Club reads almost as a form of literary journalism. The underbelly of America and the life experience are related raw through the eyes of a child. Act 2 “me”moirs are about the memoirists internal, spiritual evolution to love and understand oneself. In both Eat, Pray, Love and Wild, foreign countries and the Pacific Crest Trail are primarily stages upon which to perform.
Of course there are exceptions to my tidy little narrative. One notable Act 2-era book that reads very much like an Act 1 memoir is Stephanie Land’s Maid (2019). Land is not telling a story about “finding herself”, rather she is attempting to break out of poverty as a single mother learning how to get ahead as a house maid in Washington state. Maid ties in the Great Recession, America’s downwardly mobile middle class, and other broader themes that decentralize herself in a balanced way to gain insight into that specific time and place. A “me”moir it is not.
Act 3: Sociopathic “Me”moir is the 2020s America Mainstream Trope
Today, memoirs feel largely subservient to the “me”moirs which seek to answer the question of Who am I?. This in contrast with the Act 1 memoirs, like Karr’s, where the fundamental inquiry is Who are we?. In the pursuit of What am I?, the Act 2 “me”moirists exist in an internal world of perpetual examination. This internal exploration is often hung upon a physical journey in which the writer grows in a sort of Hero’s Journey storytelling structure. In Act 1, literary journalism elements were fundamental. In Act 2, they are absent. Where does the rigorous and fruitful examination end and the Narcissus eternally gazing into his own reflection begin?
But these are questions for Act 2, we now we are in Act 3! In Act 3, the writer needn’t bother with a physical Hero’s Journey with which to use as a performance stage. One doesn’t need to grow or evolve into a better version of oneself. No, here in 2020s America, the writer needn’t do anything in particular besides exist as a sociopath and learn to love it. What am I? is explored as a sort of clinical examination in a therapist office, stories of feeling no emotions nor morality sprinkled about as case study evidence for the thesis. I have no sense of emotion or morality. It’s normal, worth celebrating even!
To grow or change as a person? No, silly! I was born a sociopath and I learned about sociopathy. And to what end? Act 1 memoirs taught us about our world and ourselves in a journalism-adjacent manner. Act 2 “me”moirs took us on a personal, internal journey that aimed to connect with the reader in some way. Act 3 declares sociopathy and demands empathy—literally. Is Learning to Love My Narcissism next? Probably.
While I’ve been focusing on this particular work, I think the forces that delivered us Sociopath: A Memoir are systemic. What’s really interesting is not that a sociopath would write a memoir (to be honest, sociopaths writing memoirs sounds very natural), but that it would be a Simon & Schuster lead title with prime PR real estate in WSJ and “the most anticipated book” status across the literary world.
To me, this underpinning societal structure is the true story. The fascinating part isn’t that Sociopath: A Memoir exists, but rather it gets the full backing of the literati machine. Think of all the Americans living story worthy lives out there: soldiers, nudists, beet farmers, lion tamers, motorcycle adventurers, astronomers, nurses, clowns, dudes who got their legs bitten off by sharks, hot air balloonists, heroine junkies who kicked the vice, bartenders, etc. I know for a fact they are writing their stories and pitching them to publishers like Simon and Schuster. I also know readers would like these stories.
And yet, here we are. Is it really because of the promise of sales, or is this a broader societal project at play? If it is indeed sales motivated and Sociopath: A Memoir does become an organic hit, then perhaps that’s the true genius of the Act 3 sociopathic “me”moir. Turns out, just like Act 1, the book is about who we are after all.
Consider buying my book, Salmon in the Seine: Alaskan Memories of Life, Death, & Everything In-Between! Available wherever books are sold, including Amazon, Powell’s City of Books, and Third Place Books. It’s won eight notable independent/small press book awards, so hey, it can’t be that bad, amirite?