|
|
So infers Janet Malcom, biographer. Well, sorta: this comes from her book The Silent Woman: Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath that I'm reading. It struck me as an interesting tone for a biographer to take, but I think there's something in it: quote:Biography is the medium through which the secrets of the famous dead are aken from them and dumped out in full view of the world. The biographer at work, indeed, is like the progessional burglar, breaking into a house, rifling through certain drawers that he has good reason to think contain the jewelry and money, and triumphantly bearing his loot away. The voyeurism and busybodyism that impel writers and readers of biography alike are obscured by an apparatus of scholarship designed to give the enterprise and appearance of banklike blandness and solidity. The biographer is portrayed almost as a kind of benefactor. He is seen as sacrificing years of his life to his task, tirelessly sitting in archives and libraries and patiently conducting interviews with witnesses. There is no length he will not go to, and the more the book reflects his industry the more the reader believes that he is having an elevating literary experience, rather than simply listening to backstairs gossip and reading other people's mail. The trangressive nature of biography is rarely acknowledged, but it is the only explanation for biography's status as a popular genre. The reader's amazing tolerance (which he would extend to no novel written half as badly as most biographies) makes sense only when seen as a kind of collusion between him and the biographer in an excitingly forbidden undertaking; tiptoeing down the corridor together, to stand in front of the bedroom door and try to peep through the keyhole.Thoughts? I'm a relatively new convert to biographical reading. Is there ever anything more in it than the quest of dirty laundry? |
|
|