The Man Behind the Curtain
My reading has slowed way, way down as we are back in school.
So I am nearly done with the Tolstoy biography of Patrick O'Brian. He seems to be going out of his way to be fair to Dean King, whose bio is full of error--but Tolstoy is the first to say it's not his fault, he did the best he could with the (scant) data he could find. When he quibbles with conclusions Dean comes to, he refrains from sneering or posing. Most refreshing. I also like the voice--he doesn't pretend a neutral position, but talks about 'my mother' and so forth, and some of his tiny footnote additions give a glint of insight into Toystoy himself.
But this last portion of what may be a first volume (it ends in '49, years before O'Brian began the Aubrey Maturin books)deals with a lot of the later events, specifically the excoriation (Tolstoy's indignant tone implies) POB got from journalists when details of his actual life were winnowed out. This has caused me, as I scrubbed desks, hauled file boxes and text books, and painted a wall mural of a sunny forest afternoon, to reflect on just what writers may or may not 'owe' journalists.
I tend to share Tolstoy's indignance because I just don't feel that a writer owes anyone any personal details whatsoever. If one lies for gain (saying one is from New Zealand if a smacking great prize were offered for only NZ-born writers) that's dishonest. But really, is it anyone's business? We're all curious, and I love memoirs, letters, diaries, biographies with a huggy passion, and I also love to see what I think may be the roots of genius in their lives, but if they don't want to offer their lives as a part of the finished work, then my feeling is, let it be so. I want the work to stand on its own merit.
Does anyone disagree? What am I not seeing?
So I am nearly done with the Tolstoy biography of Patrick O'Brian. He seems to be going out of his way to be fair to Dean King, whose bio is full of error--but Tolstoy is the first to say it's not his fault, he did the best he could with the (scant) data he could find. When he quibbles with conclusions Dean comes to, he refrains from sneering or posing. Most refreshing. I also like the voice--he doesn't pretend a neutral position, but talks about 'my mother' and so forth, and some of his tiny footnote additions give a glint of insight into Toystoy himself.
But this last portion of what may be a first volume (it ends in '49, years before O'Brian began the Aubrey Maturin books)deals with a lot of the later events, specifically the excoriation (Tolstoy's indignant tone implies) POB got from journalists when details of his actual life were winnowed out. This has caused me, as I scrubbed desks, hauled file boxes and text books, and painted a wall mural of a sunny forest afternoon, to reflect on just what writers may or may not 'owe' journalists.
I tend to share Tolstoy's indignance because I just don't feel that a writer owes anyone any personal details whatsoever. If one lies for gain (saying one is from New Zealand if a smacking great prize were offered for only NZ-born writers) that's dishonest. But really, is it anyone's business? We're all curious, and I love memoirs, letters, diaries, biographies with a huggy passion, and I also love to see what I think may be the roots of genius in their lives, but if they don't want to offer their lives as a part of the finished work, then my feeling is, let it be so. I want the work to stand on its own merit.
Does anyone disagree? What am I not seeing?