The cult of the ego (that is, a preoccupation with self-analysis) is a late development in the history of literature. There were, to be sure, men in ancient times who were absorbed in their own selves, but there is almost no autobiographical literature from ancient Greece and, in spite of Cicero and Pliny the Younger, there is little from ancient Rome. The confession, made as humble as possible and often declamatory in the exposition of the convert’s repented sins, was an outgrowth of Christianity; masters of confessional literature were Saint Augustine, Petrarch, and the English Puritans. Autobiographical writing took a different form in the 18th century in the work of men who would have agreed with Goethe that personality is the most precious possession. After the publication of Rousseau’s Confessions in France in 1781, the passion for looking into one’s heart (and other organs as well) spread to other literatures of western Europe. Many a novelist thereafter kept a precise record of his cogitations, anxieties, and harrowing moments of inability to create. Poets and painters, including Delacroix, Constable, and Braque, have often done the same. There is only a very tenuous separation between fiction of this sort from nonfiction; the introspective novel in the first person singular has much in common with a diary, or a volume of personal reminiscences. In his long novel À la recherche du temps perdu (1913–27; In Search of Lost Time), Proust revealed himself in three ways—as the author, as the narrator, and as the characters who are projections of his own self. An autobiography once was ordinarily written toward the end of a life, as a fond recollection or an impassioned justification of a lifetime’s deeds. More and more, it has come to be written also by men and women in their prime. The names of writers whose autobiographical writings have become classics is legion. Henry Adams (1838–1918) owes his place in American letters chiefly to his book on his education; in 20th-century English letters, Osbert and Sacheverell Sitwell, Leonard Woolf, and Stephen Spender may similarly survive in literature through autobiographical works. André Gide, always uncertain of his novelist’s vocation, felt more at ease laying bare the secret of his life in autobiographies and journals.

Although imaginative fiction has probably suffered from excesses of introspection and of analyses of the author’s own artistic pangs, knowledge of man’s inner life has been enriched by such confessions. The most profound truths on human nature, however, have been expressed not in the form of autobiography but in its transposition into fiction. Readers generally have found more truth in literature created from the possibilities of life than from the personal record of the one life that the author has lived.

In conclusion, the variety of nonfictional prose is prodigious. It can be written on almost any conceivable subject. Almost any style may be used, from casual digressions or sumptuous and sonorous sentences to sharp maxims and elliptical statements. But nonfictional prose seldom gives the reader a sense of its being inevitable, as does the best poetry or fiction. Nonfictional prose seldom can answer positively the question that Rilke and D.H. Lawrence suggest that any potential writer should ask: Would I die if I were prevented from writing?