Narrating A Life

Biography as Theory Building

I'm really into biographies.

The first one I remember reading was Balzac by Stephan Zweig (The Novel of His Life was the french subtitle), and it's still one of my favorite books.

Balzac's brilliance was fascinating, but his paradoxes even more so: how the best observer and critique of the high parisian society was also desperate to be part of it, how he wrote most of his masterpieces as a way to stave of debt incurred in wildly impractical schemes, how he had to rewrite every page 10, 15, 20 times to compensate for cheap stylistic habits picked up when he was a ghostwriter for the time's pulps.

Even his death, where all his organs gave up at the same time from overwork (and years of the strongest cafe brewed in France!) was exciting and fascinating and tragic.

Since then I've read many more biographies, and developped some preferences: I generally want to like or at least be impressed by the historical figure, and I particularly like when details reveal some depth or texture that adds to the simplified story. I knew Balzac as a great of french literature from my school days, but I was delighted to learn how every home he lived in had three steps before reaching him (like three doors/ halls) and a backdoor, so he could always run from his debtors. Or that he once got willingly imprisoned for debt because the public jail and debtors were less dangerous than the private ones.

But I don't think it was until I got into Robert Caro's work, The Power Broker and his series on the life of Lyndon Johnson, that I really starting thinking about what biography truly entailed.

Think about it: good biographies are never compendium of facts, just one date after another. They breathe life into a name, they are stories, narration, often with irony, morality, causes and consequences.

All of this is not directly in the biographical data; it's a pattern revealed by the biographer. Or said another way, every biography is really a theory of that person's life.

Were there the hero or the villain? What did they succeed at? What did they fail at? What were their essence, their core traits of characters? How did they change? Which relations mattered to them, and which changed them, for the better or for the worse?

A good biographer will address these questions, will structure the life in a way that emphasizes what they see as the core elements of that life, and neglect or pass quickly over what they consider irrelevant.

That's one reason why many biographers start with a scene in medias res, in the heyday/peak of the protagonist: Caro starts all his books with key scenes that highlight what the protagonist will become, what needs to be explained; Edmond Morris's Roosevelt Trilogy starts with the most impressive version of Teddy Roosevelt, the unstoppable president, even though the whole first volume is dedicated to the lead up to Roosevelt's presidency.

And of course, like any theory, a biography also reflects the theory-maker. Most notably what they think needs to be explained, clarified, corrected.

I remember being confused, even at 17, by Zweig dedicating multiple pages to his explanation of why the teenage Balzac desired a woman as antique as 30 years old. For me there was nothing really to explain, just noting the fact that Balzac was attracted to older women and maternal figures. But Zweig goes into a lot of detail, ascribing this desire to Balzac's superhuman creative genius which could make him see anything in the light he wanted, even a woman of 30 as desirable...

Similarly, if a historical figure has been considered a certain way, or neglected by posterity, the biographer might focus on providing a counterpoint. Robert Coram's biography of John Boyd for example is a way to save one of the most important fighter pilot, fighter jet designer and theoretician, and war strategist, from the shadows where his fights with the Air Force had relegated him. Or Robert Caro's The Power Broker was intended in part to show how much power Robert Moses had and used and how he got it, details which were completely hidden from the public.

Another kind of correction dear to my heart is restoring some of the historical figure's complexity, after it has been compressed by time. Any biography of someone who is revered today, from America's founding fathers to the great novelists of the canon, tend to add details and colour at least to the marble figures of the past.

I remember enjoying tremendously learning about Victor Hugo's intent to have sex with every pretty woman he met. It was a bit voyeuristic, but it also transformed him him from "the greatest poet and novelist in french literary history" to a simple man, with his own demons. And it was heartbreaking to learn how a lot of these escapist tendencies got much worse after the death of his beloved daughter.

Or another example is the Herbert Hoover biography by Kenneth Whyte, which embraces the amazing contradictions of a man who could both be incredibly generous and heartless, how helped countless and often made himself hated in the process, who cared but couldn't show any emotion. (If you want a review that captures the feeling of it, go read this great book review by Scott Alexander)

The biographer's personality also influences their criteria for a good explanation. Seeing something happen a couple of time, or knowing about a pivoting moment might be enough for one; whereas another might need to dig into the root causes of almost everything.

Robert Caro is symptomatic of the later style, which makes for enormous and deep biographies.

In his first book on Lyndon Johnson, he doesn't really start at Johnson's childhood; instead he goes on a history of Johnson's birthplace, the Texas Hill Country: why it attracted so many dreamers (lush vegetation everywhere), why it was a trap (very shallow soil that was only hanging on thanks to roots and vegetation which had grown slowly for hundreds of years), what happened when the farmers and the cattle herders exhausted the vegetation (the soil literally got washed way, along with the dreams), and why people kept forgetting this and hoping (the rains that destroyed everything might not happen for 5, 6, years at a time).

Caro goes into that much detail because he wants to explain why Lyndon Johnson is how he is: refusing to take sides, to be idealistic, to have solid and visible values. And for Caro that comes back to Johnson's relationship with his father, which he adulated when the father was successful (Johnson even kept many mannerisms from his father), but then rejected completely when his father lost all his money and will and health trying to restore the family farm in the Hill Country. So Johnson, according to Caro, decided in his heart of heart to never be like his father, the idealistic dreamer that always followed his values. And why did his father fail so hard? Because he was a dreamer, and the hill country has always been a deadly trap for dreamers.

Last but not least, the biographer's focus depend of their aim. For any good theory is meant for applications.

Some biographies are little morality plays, about the good examples to emulate and the bad ones to avoid. Others just want to rescue a figure from the dark. Still other use the biography of someone to illuminate a time, a philosophy, a way of life.

For example, any biography of Victor Hugo is a fascinating prism with which to see modern French history, since he was born during the First Republic and died during the Third Republic, witnessing, participating in, vituperating about 2/3 of the political regimes in the history of France: the First Republic, the First Empire, the First Restoration, the Hundred Days, the Second Restoration, the July Monarchy, the Second Republic, the Second Empire, and the Third Republic.

I've also been reading a new biography of Marcus Aurelius recently, which is a great mean to introduce and nuance stoicism, since Marcus is an examplar of a good practicing stoic, and he had numerous challenges from Fortune to put his philosophy into practice.

Can the biographer be led astray? Of course, they are humans. Like any theory builder, they might make something that is misguided, overly simplistic, biased, and all the possible issues we have. But also like theory building, there is a counterforce that keeps biographers on their toes: other biographers and fellow historians, which might disagree about some interpretation, or have new facts to consider, or just want to correct a subtle point.

Which is why I think it's often better to read multiple biographies of the same figure. It can feel redundant, since we know the story already. Except the story depends on the biographer's theory, and you might be surprised how insightful comparing and coordinating multiple theories can be.

Ask the scientists, they've been doing that for centuries.

PS: After posting this, I remembered a great instance of self-defeating theory in a biography: Ray Monk’s Bertrand Russell books. This is a case where the biographer cannot stand the historical figure he describes, and so attempts to show how terrible of a human being he was. But, being forced to actually quote from Russell, Monk cannot help but show him as a fallible, but witty man who didn’t take himself too seriously. (See this review in the Guardian for more details)

So the worse theories of a life falsify themselves.