There are no happy marriages in literary memoirs, and I pity whomever was foolish enough to marry a writer in the first place. Famous writers and their ex-spouses possess a variety of dubious stock traits. Husbands are deeply insecure narcissists rendered impotent when passed over for major awards. Wives possess an often lesser-respected talent, and are driven into paroxysms of resentment after years of living in the long shadow of a Great Man. Every detail in a written account of their time together is an accusation. I believe the finest example of this brand of scorched-earth memoir is actress