Marshlands by André Gide

An anxious author can't stop going to parties with other artsy types and blabbing about his important new novel to skeptical, self-involved friends: is in NYC, ca. now? No—Paris, 1895. Over a hundred years ago, André Gide wrote Marshlands, a self-referential novel that lacerates literary pretension, pioneered autofictional forms, and foretold our post-truth reality:

"But it's not about truth, you can change the facts to make them be whatever you want."

"I arrange the facts to make them conform to the truth more closely than they do in real life. I can't explain it to you now, it's too complicated."

His friend is doubtful:

"I'm afraid this story of yours might be the least little bit boring."

A vastness of silence—subsequent to which I cried, my voice full of feeling: "Angela, Angela, please! When will you understand what books are about?"