Troubles of Biographers: Z is for Zeno (or the Writings of Zeno)

Trouble: Is a biography of a person's thoughts a biography? 

Biography: Holiday, Ryan and Stephen Hanselman. Lives of the Stoics: The Art of Living from Zeno to Marcus Aurelius. Portfolio/Penguin, 2020.

Zeno of Kition (or Zeno of Citium on Wikipedia) was a founding member of Stoicism, if not the founding member. The chosen tome refers to him as "Zeno the Prophet." 

"[L]ike the origin stories of all prophets," the authors state, "[there are] some conflicting accounts of Zeno's early life, and the shipwreck [which set him on the path to stoicism] is no exception" (1).

In fact, in a fitting end to this list, the only way future readers know of Zeno is from biographers who wrote about Zeno. Even our knowledge of his writings depends on his biographies, as no intact text remains. And yet his writings made enough impact that he was known and valued in his own time and has gone down in history as a seminal figure. 

By all accounts, Zeno was a well-off son of a merchant who left his family's business to become a philosopher. Originally attached to Crates, a Cynic (school of, not an emo pose), Zeno eventually set up his own school, which established the precepts of Stoicism. 

Stoicism, like many philosophies, produces a range of ideas. Unlike more individually-focused concepts, Zeno apparently argued for a more community-based/utopian approach, fitting to a man who left a wealthy family to live simply. However, the most consistent concepts persist, namely that the pursuit of truth is a lifelong process that takes self-restraint, discipline, and self-knowledge. "Perception" of a idea/conflict/controversy/event is separated from "assent" (10). One can understand something without automatically agreeing with it.

The opening chapter of Lives, Zeno the Prophet earns 10 pages. And there is little more that really can be said. A fictional tome, such as Stone employed with Pope Julius and Michelangelo, might provide more context and insight. An examination of Zeno's influence on his generation, as with Quibell, might address his importance. An examination of Stoicism as a phenomenon, as with Isis, might bring the distant, blurry figure into focus.

In the end, this list ends where it began. Austen is remembered, not because she was the member of her family with the most social status or even, by the standards of her time, the most social accomplishments. She is remembered and examined for her works, yet using her creations as a stand-in for the person is an exercise in guesswork. 

A philosopher is supposedly more linked to a philosophy than a fiction writer to a creation--but the person is still hidden. And what is at stake here? What do we hope to discover through a biography? A full knowledge of another individual's personality? Actions? Impact?

Yes. The person--unlike us yet relatable; remote yet still accessible--ultimately attracts readers to a biography. And therein lies the tension. Zeno may be an extreme example but in the end, isn't it true that any biography--the well-written one and poorly written one--will only scratch the surface? 

The individual will always remain partly hidden. In the end, the writing about the person is what gets remembered. Who wrote the biography does, in fact, matter.

Troubles of Biographers: Y is for Youngness Approach to Young

Along with the question, What constitutes a biography? comes the question, Who should tell the story of another person?

This issue has arisen in several previous biographies on this list: Is the best biographer someone in the same profession? A fan? A detractor?

Trouble: Is a biography told by an insider a biography or is it a testimony/eulogy?

As a Mormon (of which term I am not ashamed), I found Kingdom of Nauvoo by "outsider" Benjamin Park more enlightening than "insider" Richard Bushman's biography of Joseph Smith. Bushman is a decent writer and historian. But I was disappointed by the biography's lack of diversified research and by the limited perspective. 

Kingdom, on the other hand, is a marvel. Despite--or perhaps because of--the confusions of the time period, the book presents a Joseph Smith that I ended up respecting more, despite his numerous and very human mistakes. Kingdom is extremely well-researched and well-balanced. Instead of righteous victims versus evil detractors, the book presents a complex picture of encounters, which picture nevertheless remains fair to the leader in question. It demonstrates a mastery of material and human nature.

I don't recommend the book to someone looking for a seamless, perfect history of the church. Or, for that matter, someone looking for a seamless, imperfect history of the church. I find both approaches unsatisfying, not to mention boring. 

For "Y," I tackled the biography of another Mormon leader by another "outsider": 

Biography: Turner, John G. Brigham Young: Pioneer Prophet. Belknap, 2012. 

Turner likewise presents a complex yet balanced portrait. If anything, the book is more gentle with Mormonism and Brigham than Kingdom yet doesn't hold back from presenting stark realities. Turner earned my appreciation early on by stating, in Chapter 1, "We should begin by remembering that [Young] was a nineteenth-century man and avoid any tortured attempt to make him palatable for a twenty-first-century audience, Mormon or otherwise" (5). 

More impressively, one gets the impression quite quickly that Turner rather likes Young and is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt--to criticize him, yes, but to also praise him when appropriate. In fact, Brigham Young: Pioneer Prophet confirms what I encountered in Kingdom: 

By the time Joseph Smith reached Nauvoo, he had come to thoroughly and entirely trust Brigham Young more than any other male of his acquaintance (other than possibly Hyrum, who was more like a second-self), to feel for Young the marvelous quote from Lincoln about Grant: "My trust in him is marrow deep."

Brigham Young was a forceful, opinionated man, but his was the kind of force that isn't cowed by dedication to another male's leadership--at least, not in this case. He was without pause or question loyal to Joseph Smith. By the time he led the apostles to England as head of the Quorum, he was able--through energy, humor, and managerial skills--to keep them on-track, loyal to each other, and loyal to Joseph Smith. And to do so in a way that doesn't come across as coercive. He would return to Nauvoo to learn of polygamy. He never looked back. 

Even more than Park, Turner illustrates the logical progression of Mormon doctrines from sealing to polygamy. Whatever the motives of Joseph Smith and the Twelve, polygamy created lines of support in a time when poverty and starvation for most people lurked one bad harvest away. The amassed, criss-crossing resources that the twenty-first century takes for granted simply didn't exist. Religious communities of various kinds were one protection. 

Neither Park nor Turner disguise, however, that polygamy caused fractures within the Mormon community. Both deal directly with the incendiary nature of reports brought by "disaffected" members and nearby citizens. It was an active, strident, conflicting, confusing, and dangerous time, which puts the lie to images of the past as less crazy and turbulent than our own era.    

Whatever the downsides of polygamy, Turner's book makes clear that the temple ceremonies and sealings before the saints left Nauvoo created multiple networks, a way to "achieve earthly harmony while creating the expanded family structures they expected to persist for eternity" (162). Young was sealed to multiple wives, some with current husbands, some without; some of the marriages were consummated; some were not. He was also sealed to Joseph Smith's widows as well as to multiple adult adopted children, including in-laws, wives-to-be and husbands of those wives. An effort to create a community bound not just by common beliefs or by economic need but by heavenly ordinances was at work. 

Without praise or censure, Turner presents this effort within its context. He later does the same in his thorough, fair, and remarkably insightful handling of Young's many wives. Many women importuned Young for the privilege of a sealing--for any number of reasons: he was willing to grant divorces to women in unhappy situations; they were honestly attracted to him; they were honestly attracted to the family situation; some of them appear to have assumed marriage to Young would entail a wealthy lifestyle (however, pioneer life is pioneer life, and Young himself worked quite hard--he expected his family to do the same); and they may have been attracted to the authority and power of certain wives, such as Young's first wife--"President-ess" and "Mother Young"--and later wife, Eliza R. Snow. Some were true believers in the theological principle. Some of them became disaffected. Many stayed.

Not only does Turner tackle polygamy, he doesn't avoid the more unlikable and troubling of Young's qualities, including prejudice regarding African-Americans and Native Americans, authoritarianism, defensive blusters, and support of "blood atonement," which led to multiple acts of vigilantism.

Without dismissing the implications and long-term influence of these qualities, Turner places them in context, both the context of the nineteenth century and the context of Young's personality. Young continually comes across as a kind of Paul figure--without the cosmopolitanism or fundamental logic but similar in the sense of putting on paper and into speech anything that entered his head. As Turner writes, "Over the thirty years of his church presidency, Young said so many different things about women that with selective quotations from his discourses, one would turn him into either a misogynist or a proto-feminist. Neither portrait is accurate" (379, my emphasis). People are complicated.

For instance, without the range of experience and education, Young also evokes reminders of Winston Churchill in his willingness to try one thing and then another. He experimented, adapted, and changed his approaches over time from Wild West outlaw to Western politician.

Young was haunted throughout his presidency by the assassination of Joseph Smith. He would be no willing sacrifice--far from it! Not only was no group of thugs going to get to him, no group of Mormons was going to persuade him to change his course. Turner's use of "pugnacious" to describe Young is spot on. And it is accurate to argue that a number of tragedies, including the Mountain Meadows Massacre and the Utah War, were brought on or exacerbated by Young's bellicosity, although in the latter case, a full-on confrontation was averted. It would be inaccurate to portray Young as behaving outside his time period. 

Throughout the book, what struck me most forcibly, despite Young's bellicosity, was how thoroughly the Utah territory was bound up in American concerns from the beginning. Despite the claims--and to a degree, the legend--of Utah independence, Utah pioneers never dropped economic ties to the East coast, California, and to the very army they resisted. Young retained relationships not only with business interests on the other side of the Mississippi but with members loyal to Brigham Young (as he would have seen it) who remained there. The Federal government from day one made decisions about Mormon interests in terms of its own interests. Lincoln famously said to "let [Young] alone" since at the time, a stable overland route was more important than harassing the man who helped maintain that stable overland route.

Later, those priorities would change.

The book is subtitled Pioneer Prophet, and Turner is more than generous in his assessment of Young's leadership here--though he acknowledges that while an interesting idea, handcarts were ultimately abandoned.  

During Young's first trip west, Turner remarks on the "uneventful nature of the trek" and correctly commends this lack of drama (despite the love of members for harrowing stories): "Moving 148 people more than one thousand miles over hazardous terrain without death, hunger, or significant discord could not be taken for granted" (168).   

Towards the end of the book, Turner reiterates his point: "By the time the transcontinental railroad (completed in 1869) greatly eased the financial and logistical burden of gathering, Brigham Young had presided over the organized emigration and settlement of more people than anyone else in American history" (314).

Moreover, Young imbued all these endeavors with interest and joy. As Turner writes, "Young's Mormonism remained a faith of physicality, fellowship, and recreation alongside ritual and revelation, a faith that imbued farming, house-raising, and even dancing with sacred significance"(164).

Lion of the Lord

The passion that led Young to encourage "gathering" and to experiment with different ways to move people West, led Young to try out economic programs that would hopefully bring prosperity to the community. As a product of ancestors who settled Orderville, I was interested to read about the success of that particular experiment. It proved less successful elsewhere. In one sentence, Turner sums up the problem with any kind of communitarianism: 

"If Young did not trust others with his property, it is hardly surprising that many church members did not trust him with theirs" (400). 

"He was most inspiring as a leader," Turner adds, "when he shared in the sacrifices he demanded of others" (400). 

In sum, Turner believes that the sheer force of Young's personality held the Mormon community together for decades. After his death, that community rapidly evolved in other directions, as religions are wont to do. Yet Young's defense of community ideals and certain theological ideas lasted long after his death, including temple rituals.

Turner does not address whether that legacy is fading. A good biographer, he maintains his focus. And the biography is well-worth reading.

In conclusion, a biography by an "outsider" can produce great insights and a lack (thankfully) of protected "givens." However, disillusionment is as boring in its own way as panegyrics. It helps if the outsider biographer is both objective and generous.

Troubles of Biographers: X is for Madame X

The final posts for A-Z List 6 tackle the underlying issue, What is a biography?

The particular trouble for this post  returns to Burroughs and Tarzan as well as Quibell and Egypt: 

Trouble: Should a biography cover a person or an event? 

I chose Virginie Amelie Gautreau, made famous by Sargent's portrait, Madame Mme***, later Madame Gautreau, later Madame X, and the scandal surrounding that portrait.

Biography: Davis, Deborah. Strapless: John Singer Sargent and the Fall of Madame X. Penguin, 2003. 

I was unable to find a biography of Virginie Amelie Gautreau. The chosen biography clarified why. Although Gautreau had a fascinating grandmother and a tough mom and came from a complex region of America and American history, she is not that interesting. Madame X is in fact the reason we remember her. 

Whether or not she could be interesting is a nature-nurture debate that I won't enter into here (note: it isn't resolved by people throwing theoretical terms around). Isabella Stuart Gardner, of the same time period and also painted by Sargent, managed to take the world by storm--or by its throat (depends on one's view of Isabella Stuart Gardner)--without apology. As Davis reports, when Gardener's portrait (to the left) caused comment, "[T]he offended husband was the only person who minded that the painting was a little risque" (230).

Virginie Amelie Gautreau was not made or not bred (or both) for brilliant obnoxiousness or, unfortunately, graceful obscurity. Well-behaved women may not make (temporary) history but often their works and efforts survive longer than those of their noisier peers: see Anne Bradstreet. The nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries are full of motherly women, business women, artistic women who left their mark on their immediate societies and their families. 

Gautreau is not one of them. 

Here's the scandal. 

John Singer Sargent was making a name for himself. He exhibited several years in the Salon and got fulsome praise. The Gautreau family chose him to paint Amelie, who was at the time a huge success in Paris society. He painted Madame X. It is not my favorite of Sargent's paintings (and Sargent is not my favorite late nineteenth century painter), but it is remarkable in its way. As one of the few positive critics at the time pointed out, it was a "document of the 'high life' of...1884, an image of a woman in an overheated and contrived civilization...future critics will see here our Parisian cosmopolitanism manifested in ideal form" (184-185). 

The original painting portrayed Gautreau with the strap off her shoulder. It was accepted in the Salon where it caused much outrage. Davis points out that the 1884 Salon show was filled with nudes but Madame X was (1) contemporary; (2) implied nakedness. Cavorting ancient Greek nymphs were...eh, been there done that. Gautreau was erotic. 

Outrage ensued. The Gautreau family refused to purchase the painting. After the show ended, Sargent took it to his studio (in fact, he carried it about with him for the rest of his life). He painted the strap back on her shoulder. He also, more or less, moved to London (at the insistence of Henry James and others) and eventually painted Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose, which, along with his new friends (and wealthy American patrons), helped to restore his reputation. (If Sargent's choice of subject reminds you of politicians kissing babies--hey, the man was no fool.)

What did Gautreau do? Did she thumb her nose at society? Did she retreat to America? Did she change her look? 

What Gautreau did was sad and a lesson to Twitter celebs and Twitter victims, not to forget nutty Twitter-is-the-whole-world defenders:

When the scandal faded, Gautreau

attempted to recapture the attention.

Gautreau kept having painters paint her portrait. She kept trying to recapture her celebrity status. When Madame X began to attract positive interest, she tried to latch onto it, but she'd burnt her bridges with Sargent and didn't own the painting. 

She eventually retreated into isolation. She left her fortune to a minister and a tax man. 

It's an odd story. One wishes one could reach back through the years and shake Gautreau's shoulders: "It's the Salon! Nobody cares! Support other types of artists! Move to a different country! You've got the funds! What is wrong with you?" 

But Sargent didn't capture an independent brain and mind and soul with Madame X. He captured a moment in time, perhaps even an "echo chamber," and created a sensation. It's possible that he captured only and exactly what was there.

Davis was quite right to combine the two people into one book. She is fair to both, giving as many early chapters to Gautreau (in fact, the book starts with her) as to Sargent. Yet by necessity, the book ends with the thing that joined the two and made them famous. 

Madame X is now owned by the Metropolitan Museum of Art, to whom Sargent sold it for very little money. The scandal appears to have haunted him throughout his life though it is difficult to know if he felt guilt, anger, or the deep emptiness that occurs when shallow people attack effort and accomplishment, artistry, without creating anything of their own.

In any case, the woman has lived on in her portrait, which is famous enough to be copied: 

"She is famous, as she once wished, but no one ever calls Madame X by her true name: Virginie Amelie Avegno Gautreau" (262). 

The answer to the above question?

Sometimes, a biography must focus on an event--if it is to do justice to the participants.

Troubles of Biographers: W is for Wild Wilder, Part III

As I mention in my previous post, perhaps biographies--like science fiction stories--say more about the biographers than about the subject. 

I was raised too close in blood to pioneers (on both sides of my family) to see the past through rose-colored glasses. The song about pioneer children who "walked and walked and walked" struck me as an excellent indicator of why I was happy with modern life. And the song doesn't even mention  frostbite and lack of antibiotics. (As my dad stated in response to the survey, "I would visit the nineteenth century--if I could take my doctor!")

Even without fully comprehending the darker aspects of life without modern plumbing, I still had no desire to emulate my ancestors. Thank you for sacrificing for me so I don't have to. 

To be honest, my disinterest was likely motivated by fear of boredom. Laura had so few books to read! That is, I didn't as a child actively question the idea--common outside my home--that once upon a time, America was a nicer, better, kinder, freer time. Getting older and reading history cured me of those assumptions. As a child, however, I simply took the series at face value. 

In sum, the nineteenth century was never a place the child-me wanted to go, not due to a thorough understanding of the time period but due to my creature comforts and advantages. I was happy with the life I had. 

And yet, like many people, I underwent a brief moment of wanting...not to live in the nineteenth century but to, in some way, live Laura Ingalls's life. In the second book, Laura describes receiving sugar cakes for a present. I was enamored with the idea. Our house had a wood stove (as well as an electric stove and microwave--we weren't barbarians!). One of my siblings gave my mom the Laura Ingalls Wilder Cookbook for Christmas or a birthday. The recipe for the little cakes was inside. We made them, baking them in the wood stove. They were yummy.

They still weren't what I expected. 

I don't think they ever could be. As one respondent to the survey stated, "Truthfully, not much could come close to what I felt and imagined while reading the books as a child."

In all seriousness, I imagine Garth Williams's illustrations were part of the series' enchantment for me. I didn't want the life. But something all-encompassing and remarkable rises off the page, something beyond fantasy and, perhaps, beyond history. The Laura-ness of Laura. I see the image now of the children in the snow, and I immediately think of snow days in my own childhood. Every memory I have is of a blizzard, snow deeper than anything I've seen since: igloo-type houses inside snow banks, the sled run my brothers constructed in the back yard, snow angels. 

Responses to the survey indicate how often the books give rise to specific memories. Despite my residual disappointment that the cakes weren't exactly what I expected, I clearly remember waiting for them to emerge from the stove. It's one of those images seared into my brain--a memory that might have no context at all if I didn't link it to the series. 

In response to the survey, both my parents remembered aspects of their past, my father particularly: 

Orderville. My mom would go around barefoot and when the road got too hot, she would take off her bonnet and stand on it. When I visited as a child, Aunt Maggie and Aunt Kezia would tell me to wear a hat. There was no paved road except the highway. Everybody knew each other. The high school for my mom was only [for] 2 years. If students wanted more, they had to go to Cedar City. Mom did. She got her senior year in Logan. My father met her then. She was only 16. (They didn't get married till much later.) At Aunt Maggie's, I would carry a candle upstairs. Eventually a cousin set up a generator but only ran it at night.  

Other people in my family remembered specific parts of the book as well as our parents' reactions to the books. 

Also, as a young boy, my favorite story from the books was that told in Farmer Boy of the teacher using a whip to subdue the school bully who threatened the teacher and the class. I would imagine that taking place in my school - if only!!  

Mom discovered the series when us older kids were young and became a huge fan. Curiously, she told me that even though they were originally published in the 1930s, when she was young and probably would have liked them, she has no memory of their existence. On one of our family trips West...we (Mom, Beth and I--the guys did something else) toured the Wilder home in Missouri. This was before the TV show...

Other respondents delivered precise memories, including the time and place of exposure

I read [the series] nightly to my grammar school age children, boy and girl, when we lived in Missouri for two years. My husband was getting his Master's degree at U of Mo. I had a lap baby and a skirt baby at the same time as we were reading these books. The local librarian suggested I might like them and I did and the kids did. Fifty years later they still remark about when we read "Little House of the Prairie" books together.  

My childhood in rural Maine in the 1950's had some similar events: frigid farmhouse in the winter, haying, gardening chores, stores a long way away, loving parents who worked very hard physically to keep us warm and fed. They cut their own firewood each winter, had a garden, a few chickens, a cow and a pig most of these years. I wrote about my childhood and a young neighbor paid me a compliment by saying to me, "Reading it was like 'Little House on the Prairie' books." 

The series appears to achieve that ineffable (and coveted) goal of writers: the ability to capture a time period yet also capture the relatable human experience. 

The series also appears to fall into the category of "memoir." In a course I took many years ago, the students and professor  discussed the problem of story versus history. In a memoir, the story or personal viewpoint takes priority--even if it messes with the "facts." 

As an amateur historian, I am a fan of accurate history. As a devotee of popular culture, I can't help but wonder, What lasts? Is it enough that the story lasts? The memory? The hint of someone who otherwise would have entirely disappeared? 

Sure, Paul Revere wasn't the only rider on the road to Concord and Lexington--but isn't it good we at least remember Paul Revere? 

And is it inevitable that history, like our memories, will be cropped and rearranged and retold and re-imagined in any case?

Troubles of Biographers: W is for Wild Wilder, Part II

A-Z List 6 tackles the problems of biographies. Most of the problems have addressed the writing process: Should a biographer link a specific event to a subject's personality? What does a biographer do in the absence of primary sources? 

The final books on this list will mostly tackle what a biography is. What makes a book a biography rather than a memoir, a survivor story, a treatise, a lesson (see Von Trapps), or a non-fiction book about a time period rather than a person (see just about every Shakespeare biography ever). 

In other words, I'm going "meta." The connotation here, at least, is deliberate.

Trouble: Can a biography afford to ignore the reputation or aura or cultural iconic value of the person?

Many biographies will attempt to "correct" the false views and attitudes that arise about the person--but is that a biography? A negative (so-and-so was not like that) as opposed to positive argument? Isn't perception still the controlling narrative here? (See every Cary Grant biography ever.) 

Consequently, this time around, I didn't read a biography. Rather, I (re)read a memoir about the phenomenon of Laura Ingalls Wilder:

McClure, Wendy. The Wilder Life. Riverhead, 2011. 

The book covers McClure's encounters with the cultural phenomenon of Laura Ingalls Wilder. It begins a year after her mother's death when McClure reread the series, which her mother did not read to her as a child. McClure became enthralled by the idea of "really exploring Laura World." 

The book details visits to various sites alongside McClure's thoughts about the historical reality of members of the Wilder family, the historical reality of the time period, the meaning and cultural impact of the books, and her personal experiments with crafts, like churning butter. 

She is well-aware of the "play-acting" aspect of her experience. At one point she describes buying a jar of molasses...

at Whole Foods, oddly enough, since it was the only place I could find it. The irony of going to a place with an olive bar and an artisanal cheese counter just to find the humblest pantry staple ever, practically the official condiment of The Grapes of Wrath, was not lost on me. Who knows what Ma would've thought of organic Swiss chard that probably cost more per pound than all the fabric of her green delaine dress?

Nevertheless, McClure forges on. She discusses the books' contexts. She discusses the television show. She visits most of  the extant historical sites. 

Most importantly, for the purposes of this post, she encounters reader after reader and viewer after viewer who has taken to the books and the television show for some reason other than "I want to learn more about Laura Ingalls Wilder, the person." 

She encounters a blogger who reviews the television show as part of a critique of historical family-viewing practices. She encounters essays by school children at the Little House on the Prairie replica cabin, which site was in the middle of a lawsuit. She describes the "meticulous research" by those who actually, finally, located where the cabin likely was built (page 124). She reports her conversation with the site manager who agrees that there are few Native American souvenirs. The site brings in "tribal dancers for Prairie Days Festival though she admitted that they were awfully expensive" (especially for a place in the middle of a lawsuit). "'But you know, you gotta have them come,'" the manager adds. McClure reflects, "I knew what she meant: it seems necessary to show that we all know better--better than Ma and better than [the neighbors in the book]" (133). 

McClure meets an architectural historian fascinated by pantries. She meet others like herself, excited to visit all Laura sites for their history. She meets homeschooling parents. She meets a woman who was inspired by Laura to write about her experience with her mother who had Alzheimer's. She meets little girls who think that wearing a long skirt is the equivalent of "dressing up" like a pioneer.

She meets those who definitely see the books as containing Message. She reports:

I know there are a lot of folks who can easily see Christian messages in the books, lessons about trusting and accepting the will of God in times of hardship, and relying on the bedrock of one's faith to get through...But the Ingalls family in the books didn't appear to be much the praying types...I suppose I'm inclined to see it that way because that's how my family did things--went to church sporadically and understately. (163-164). 

She continues, "I don't mind that it's this way for other people, especially if it makes the books more meaningful for them," but points out the dissonance, especially when current media renderings include religious flourishes not referenced in the books. "Suddenly it wasn't enough that they were good people, they had to be the right kind of good" (164).   

Towards the end of the book, McClure--whose politics might be described as middle-left (she doesn't go into detail)--is startled to find herself at the equivalent of a right-wing, end of times, revivalist, cult-like overnight stay. Based on the little McClure lets drop, I think she would have been less startled but just as lacking in enthusiasm to find herself at the equivalent of a nudist colony run by "love yourself/love nature" hippies. She and her boyfriend--who informs her that he "got an F in blacksmithing"--politely finish out the first day, then leave. 

Even amongst the survivalists, McClure finds differing expectations. "[C]learly, [the husband] thought the weekend would be more Soldier of Fortune magazine than Country Living. I wondered what kind of world he thought he was preparing for" (201). 

McClure's experience inspired the idea for the survey. But it also instantly raised other considerations. McClure honestly admits that her journey was fueled by her mother's death. In the final chapter, she discusses frankly the idea that Laura herself used the books to "unremember" tough events, such as "being hungry." 

As one respondent points out, "[W]hen I reread LHITBW as an adult, I realized, this book is all about food! Ma and Pa are either growing food or hunting food or gathering food or smoking food or storing food or, sometimes, preparing food for eating. Everyone has a connection to food."

If one's childhood is brushed by hunger, those times of feasting will stand out. They would form a narrative, links across the past. 

McClure makes the connection between Laura's unremembering and her own mourning process (which link she didn't perceive when she started the process): 

"I unremembered my mom's cancer and death in the Burr Oak cemetery. You don't deny something when you unremember it, you just give it a place to live." The houses of her own childhood become moments in which she and her brother knew everything about that particular house, "a bright now" in every one. (304, 307).

About halfway through the book, McClure tackles the difficult relationship between Laura and Rose, her daughter and editor--specifically,  Rose's perception of Laura. McClure complains about On the Way Home, edited by Rose, to her boyfriend, Chris. 

"[Rose] felt the need to dump all her weird mother issues on us, [the fans]."

"But it was her experience."

"But it's not about her. It's supposed to be about Laura."

And yet, McClure ruefully allows, maybe it is about the different "personas" of Laura. 

Maybe, I postulate, it is about even more than that. What if, in truth, biographies are like Star Trek episodes. They purport to be about the past (or, in the case of Star Trek, about the future) but really, ultimately, always, they are about us, the person we see, the person we understand, the person we reinterpret. 

The final post of "W is for Wild Wilder" will tackle my own experience with Laura Ingalls Wilder with input from the survey. 

Troubles of Biographers: W is for Wild Wilder, Part I

In preparation for "W" on my A-Z List, The Troubles of Biographers, I administered a survey addressing the cultural impact of The Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

Here are the results. I will address Laura Ingalls Wilder and related Troubles in two upcoming posts.

* * * 

40% of readers read the Little House series "now and again." 30% have read them multiple times and 30% at least once.

57% of readers associate the series with their childhood. 29% associate it with their adulthood, and 14% with both.

42% of respondents admire the series while 26% feel nostalgic about it and 21% love it (respondents could check more than one answer). At least one respondent forgot about the series until receiving the survey.

Regarding the television show with Michael Landon and Melissa Gilbert, 33% have mixed feelings about the show, 25% like the show, 25% dislike the show, and 17% feel nostalgic about the show. (The show is available on DVD. Many local libraries carry seasons.)

83% of respondents stated that the show has had no impact on their relationship to the book series. At least two respondents were struck by the gap between "Pa" of the show and "Pa" of the series.

There are many books associated with the series, including cookbooks, gift books, children's picture books, and Roger Lea McBride's series based on Rose Wilder's life. 27.3% of respondents have experience with the first items on the list, only 18.2% with Roger McBride's series.

54% of respondents have read a biography or autobiography associated with Laura Ingalls Wilder. (The autobiography is Pioneer Girl. Her diary, On the Way Home, was edited and published posthumously.) 27% have read something about Laura Ingalls Wilder outside of the series.

43% of respondents feel that reading the biography or autobiography had no impact on their appreciation of the series. 21% feel that reading the biography or autobiography enhanced their appreciation of the series while 14% feel that it had a negative impact.

54% of respondents feel that the series is "accurate in all the ways that count." 15% feel that the series is "somewhat inaccurate" while 15% selected "The books are based on someone's life?"

43% feel that the accuracy of the series is unimportant. 29% feel that it is important. Some respondents feel that accuracy depends on how the series is read, as fiction or as history.

33% of respondents at one time wanted to live in Laura Ingalls Wilder's world while 27% did not. One respondent declared, "I think I would enjoy and thrive in the farm aspect but would hate the dark frigid cabin life." Others agreed that "no, absolutely not--I would never survive."

However, 40% expressed no desire to live in the nineteenth century with an additional 20% choosing the "no--a thousand times, no!" option. 27% chose, "Yes, if I could leave."

Regarding perception of the series, 45% see Wilder's world as "a fascinating historical period." 33% see it as a world from a child's point of view with one respondent stating, "Laura never wrote about the period when the family lived in a hotel and her baby brother died."

Perception of the series may be linked to the overwhelming desire of respondents (that is, the kinds of people the survey taker knows) to not associate themselves with either right-wing fundamentalists or leftist hippies. 54% "prefer not to associate with either group." 46% responded "Other."

The survey questioned who respondents would sell the series to. "Sell it to everyone" received the highest responses (33%) with "to history lovers" as the second highest (19%). Children and armchair explorers both received 14%.

As to why the series remained popular for so long (its popularity may be waning), many respondents associate the series with a particular event, such as reading the series aloud to children who "still remark [on the incident] fifty years later." 

Others referred to the series' portrayal of the "family unit," as well as the series tackling "a by-gone era where traditional roles were challenged by traditional means, the weather, finances and beginnings of political America." 

One respondent suggested that the nostalgia is less for the nineteenth century and more for "adult women who remember reading [the series] as children and watching the TV show, and who then give it to their grandchildren!"  

A few respondents commented on the writing itself: "easy to read" and "the experiences described are memorable, as are her characters." Readers become invested in the characters. One respondent commented, "We all like a story of survival." Another stated, "Laura is a very strong female character with a lot of spunk (which saves it from sappiness)." And one wrote, "The story is told from the perspective of a child which makes the narrative innocent and simple and accessible to all people. The books were published at the right time in American history to serve as a definitive story and celebration of America's frontier 19th century culture, just as that culture was vanishing."

Under "Additional comments," a few respondents connected the series to their own experience: growing up "in rural Maine in the 1950s," during the Depression, and in Orderville, Utah pre-World War II.

A few respondents discussed the political nature of the books: "I'd say the books portray a traditional view of frontier living, which is inherently libertarian and conservative," wrote one respondent. Another wrote, "[T]he books glorify a myth of self-sufficiency...LHITBW does portray a rugged bootstrap kind of family, but the rugged bootstrapping adults are working all the time. It's a rosy-toned world filled with practical specifics."

The series' "meaning" (beyond its plots and characters) will be addressed in the posts that follow on Monday, March 21st and Thursday, March 24th.

Troubles of Biographers: V is for Vocal Von Trapps

These final posts on the A-Z List 5 will tackle, "What is a biography?"

Trouble: Is a biography a lesson?

My subject was, at first, Maria von Trapp, and she did write an autobiography. Surprisingly, there aren't that many biographies of Maria alone. I rather suspect that the movie speaks for itself.

There are far more books about the family. I ended up reading a children's book:

Metten, Patricia. The Power of Family: Featuring the Story of the Trapp Family. Eagle Systems, 1984.

I checked the book (and the movie) against a biography of the movie:

Santopietro, Tom. The Sound of Music Story: How a Beguiling Young Novice, a Handsome Austrian Captain, and Ten Singing von Trapp Children Inspired the Most Beloved Film of All Time. St. Martin's Press, 2015.

I came to the conclusion, as I often do, that the "mistakes" or "changes" or "poetic license" made by the movie were not nearly as extreme as the mythology purports. Maria was by all accounts far more energetic and robust even than the lively and willowy Julie Andrews. But a core toughness manifests in both cases. The marriage was less a romance at first than a mutually beneficial contract. But romance did follow. The marriage was impressively successful. The family wasn't chased out of Austria by Nazis but  got awfully close. The captain and the children were rapidly gaining enemies and rebukes for refusing to sing the new anthem and for making far more pointed anti-Nazi statements than they do in the movie. 

Both books mention Father Wasner who temporarily lived with the von Trapps in Austria and who, together with Maria, was largely responsible for the children's musical training. Father Wasner and Maria were ambitious soul mates. The movie leaves him out. Yet he doesn't appear to have minded.

One of the most enduring myths is that Maria was cheated out of the movie rights, meaning the musical movie's rights. This is incorrect. She did more or less give away her movie rights to Wolfgang Reinhardt for $9,000 (no royalties). The musical rights were a different story. Lindsay and Crouse, who started the process, approached Maria separately for those rights and then bought the movie rights from the Germans. The second time around, the von Trapps did get royalties (and still do).

All things considered, although the von Trapp family wasn't rich when they arrived in America--and did spend some years in Vermont camping out when they were not on the road--they didn't exactly end up poor either. 

I gleaned most of the above details from both books. So why would I question if they are biographies?

The second doesn't purport to be. The first two chapters cover the von Trapps but the focus is on the movie. 

The first book ostensibly is. 

I loathed it. 

No offense to the writer (in fairness, some of my revulsion could come from the pictures), the book made me want to claw out my heart and shed my skin. It was reasonably accurate but unbelievably cloying.

SEE HOW IMPORTANT FAMILY IS! SEE HOW GOOD THE VON TRAPPS WERE TO EACH OTHER! SEE HOW SWEET AND FAMILY-ORIENTED THEY WERE! 

I got through the book, set it down, and nearly spit up. 

Don't get me wrong--I love the movie. I love the movie Bread & Tulips where a mother and son find and form a family of their own with fellow oddballs in Venice. I love Bones & Booth from Bones. Yay, family! 

But treacle is not my style. And ignoring individual differences with a tale of FAMILY BELONGING is not, to my mind, a biography. Streamlining--or rather, flattening--the quirks and oddities of people, experiences, hardships, and triumphs is an agenda, not a complex story of complex individuals.

So I will tentatively claim that a biography is not a message or lesson. 

Troubles of Biographers: U is for Ustinov--No, the Other One

Trouble: People claim that a celebrity's relation or significant other (mother/father/wife/husband) deserves equal mention. Do they really? 

It is common to hear references to the "power behind the throne." Of course, the wife, husband, father, mother, grandfather, grandmother, aunt, uncle, mentor had a lot to do with so-and-so's success. But they never get the credit they should!

And sometimes, those people get a biography, but quite often, they get a biography because they accomplished something in their own right. I feel like I'm channeling Tim Allen as Mike Baxter when I point out that there aren't many biographies that read, "And then her parents drove her to school and to work. At night, they helped her with her homework and made meals...and then they did the whole thing again the next day." 

Biography: Day, Peter. The Bedbug: Klop Ustinov's: Britain's Most Ingenious Spy. Biteback, 2014, 2015. 

In the world of meta writing, The Bedbug is fascinating in part because it is a study of the type of networking referenced above--networking that goes on behind the scenes or "throne." That is, the book is a study of connections rather than notable feats. It mentions Peter Ustinov or the better-known Ustinov, but almost entirely in terms of his view of his father, not in terms of his father's impact on him. 

And the book isn't about actors anyway. It is about spying, and I'm not entirely sure it is a biography (which raises the question, What is a biography?). Klop remains the main focus but only in terms of the main issue: his role as a spy. In order to make the impact of his role clear, the book details his connections to other spies and couriers, to MI5/MI6 heads, to certain populations within London, to political heads of state. Many times, the author has to infer Klop's influence since documents of the time, even the ones now available, are deliberately euphemistic.

A few things became clear to me about spying and WWII:

Best: Venlo Incident

1. Spying is about knowing people, not (necessarily) about possessing cool skills. Spies with blown covers who have to escape to sanctuary lose their importance and have a hard time getting work. They don't seem to be able to do much else.

If you want cool skills, get a SEAL team.

2. People talk a lot. I don't want to belittle the danger--a number of agents working for Hitler while feeding information to the Brits had to get out quickly when their covers were blown. Some of them ended up dead. And some endured calculated captures and imprisonment operations like at Venlo.

But for many spies, the operations didn't depend all that much on wiggling information out of people. People told them things. People left documents on desks. The difficult part of spying was getting the information out as well as knowing whom to trust.

Nowadays, everyone would just check Twitter. 

3. Since all these spies were trying to get information from each other by any means possible, knowing whom to trust, how much, and when was a headache to end all headaches.  (And since many of them come across as vaguely sociopathic, even the "good" ones probably couldn't be trusted.)

Klop Ustinov was fairly adept at assessing German agents who supposedly wanted to help Britain. He became a kind of clearing house--agents were often shipped off to spend a weekend with him and his wife. (He was also used to assure said agents of Britain's good intentions.) In one case, he reported:

I firmly believe that having taken the plunge and having soothed his conscience with patriotic and humane formulae, [Wurmann] is playing fair with us and will continue to [play fair], not because fair play is part and parcel of his moral make-up, but because he is much too intelligent and much too disinclined to face discomfort [of] any description. (153)

Information was further complicated

by someone like Philby selectively 

downplaying anything harmful to Stalin.

Someone like Klop was additionally useful since a lot of information and disinformation was coming in from a lot of different sources. One thing that mystery/suspense shows often miss (except Elementary) is the sheer amount of time it takes to sift through documents and texts and reported conversations, digital or not. Klop was good at winnowing out the chaff to focus on salient details.

4. Lots of people warned the Brits about Hitler. Lots and lots and lots of people. German army commanders. German politicians. British military leaders. People like Klop. Churchill. And the warnings weren't coming from a single side or "bench." They were coming from people who philosophically had little in common yet agreed on a single assessment: Hitler was using British political goodwill to further his own ends. 

Chamberlain's refusal to act on the obvious was not for lack of good intelligence. It was a psychological mindset. He was actually worse than the way he is portrayed in Darkest Hour.

5. Klop was an interesting guy, a good information gatherer and go-between. By all accounts, he was an excellent conversationalist. It can be inferred that he helped the World War II war effort in Britain. 

He was also a not-so-good husband and father. 

He would likely not merit a book if he had been a good one. 

It is not entirely clear that the book he did get is even about him.  

 

Troubles of Biographers: T is for Trustworthy Truman

Trouble: The biography is boring but the subject isn't. 

A-Z List 6, Biographies, came about when I started to read a biography of Theodore Roosevelt by Edmund Morris.

And it was boring. 

It struck me as rather astonishing that a biography of Theodore Roosevelt could be boring, so I tried the autobiography. 

And then I got annoyed. Because Morris's biography was nearly a copy of Roosevelt's autobiography. 

I don't mean Morris plagiarized. Everything is properly quoted and cited. But the entire organization of the book, including the presentation of material, was eerily similar. 

I'm aware that Edmund Morris won the Pulitzer Prize for his biography of Roosevelt. I honestly couldn't figure out why. Is a biography really just a document that strings together quotes and summaries from other sources? Really? 

Because--who wants to read that?  

I started this list to figure out what makes a good biography. One possibility is, A good biography is a good read.

I tried to read Morris's biography because Theodore Roosevelt is a fairly interesting guy. For the letter "T," I decided to read a biography about a figure that interested me very little but was written by a writer I already trusted.

McCullough, David. Truman. Simon & Schuster, 1992. 

I read the first 2/3rds of the book and listened to the last 1/3rd, read by McCullough, a lovely reader (he is the Ken Burns' Civil War documentary narrator). 

And yes, a good read makes a difference. 

Even if I had remained uninterested in Truman, I was enthralled by the biography within the first few chapters. Without getting too bogged down by background, McCullough delineates the South at the turn of the century, World War I, the role of the "party machine" in politics, and other notable events in American society. I gained historical understanding by looking at America through Truman's life.

And I came to appreciate Truman, which I believe is one purpose of a good biography: increased understanding, appreciation, empathy of the titular character. 

Truman was, simply, a good guy with a gentleman's mindset and instinct. He was also somewhat extraordinary. He was capable of using the party machine and even being loyal to Tom Pendergast (to the point where he attended his funeral) without feeling in any way beholden to it or Pendergast for his political decisions. He was capable of admiring Franklin D. Roosevelt (I rather wish he hadn't) without feeling forced to similar courses of action. He also had more integrity in his little pinky than FDR in his entirety. For one, Truman knew that politics was a "cesspool." He enjoyed politics, but he dived in with eyes wide open and a full knowledge of what it might do to his own character.

If I was the kind of person who believes that God organizes affairs to override human agency (I'm not [entirely]), I would believe that the abdication of Edward VIII and the placement of Truman as vice-president at the time of FDR's death were divinely mandated circumstances brought about to further the successful wrap-up of World War II. Like far too many leaders--except Churchill--Truman was taken in by Stalin, but Stalin's charisma didn't alter Truman's fundamental belief that both fascism and communism were evils the world needed to stand against. Truman was to his bones a patriot of American democracy, a pro-military man, and an exceptionally hard worker. 

I especially admire him for firing MacArthur. I'm not questioning MacArthur as the proper person to handle the surrender of Japan at the end of World War II, and I'm aware of opposing arguments.  What struck me, however, wasn't MacArthur's unbelievable pompousness (his "farewell" to Congress sounds like a spoof, it is so over-the-top self-indulgent) or the fact that MacArthur--the military leader supposedly defending American democracy--didn't seem to understand military protocol, chain of command, or democracy. 

What struck me was Truman's staunchness. The outcry at Truman's action could rival and surpass Twitter storms now. Truman didn't care. He gave MacArthur multiple chances to come around and then made the proper decision as Commander-in-Chief. 

I listened to this part of the biography--great

story even if you know the outcome!

I have a hard time thinking of any political or business or social media leader who could handle such a storm now without (1) bowing to pressure; (2) going on Twitter and excessively explaining/defending him/herself/themselves. Truman did neither. He knew the decision was right and he was entirely unimpressed by MacArthur's posturing. Truman did his job.

Yet he would have given the man a second chance immediately (before his final decision) if MacArthur had at once indicated an ability to compromise. 

Truman was a man who was entirely a product of his culture yet entirely capable of rising above it because he truly believed in the obligations of integrity. I wouldn't have agreed with him on all occasions--I'm not a big fan of the New Deal--but I would, and do, admire him. 

McCullough argues Truman's case. He is also even-handed; he calmly and fairly points out various sides to a number of issues. He looks at the whole man. 

At the end of the biography, McCullough writes,

Born in the Gilded age, the age of steam and gingerbread Gothic, Truman had lived to see a time of lost certainties and rocket trips to the moon. The arc of his life spanned more change in the world than in any prior period in history. A man of nineteenth-century background, he had had to face many of the most difficult decisions of the unimaginably different twentieth century...He came directly from the people. He was America. In his time, in his experience, from small town to farm to World War in far-off France in 1918; from financial failure after the war to the world of big-city machine politics to the revolutionary years of the New Deal in Washington to the surge of America power during still another terrible World War, he had taken part in the great chronicle of American life as might have a character in a novel. (991-992)

And McCullough delivers that chronicle. His biography isn't a collection of quotes. It is a narrative of a complicated and multi-layered human man. 

Good writing does make a difference! 

Truman with the remarkable Gary Sinise is a decent rendition of the book.

Troubles of Biographers: S is for Schenectady's Star

Trouble: What if no one knows about the subject except people in his hometown? 

At my oldest brother's encouragement, I chose Charles Proteus Steinmetz for "S." For most of his working life, he worked at GE in my hometown of Schenectady, New York. During his lifetime (and now), he is considered on par with Edison and Tesla and even superior to them in many ways. 

Despite growing up in Schenectady and having a father who worked for GE Research & Development for his entire career, I had never heard of Steinmetz. 

Or maybe I had, but I didn't remember. My brother Joe concurred. We certainly weren't taught about Steinmetz in school! 

My father, however, heard his name quite often at work.

Nevertheless, Charles Proteus Steinmetz is an unsung hero. There was one biography for Steinmetz in the Portland Public Library, and it was written in 1924. The general catalog (MaineCat) had far more works BY Steinmetz than about him. I interlibrary-loaned the selected biography; nearly every copy of that biography on WorldCat was from a New York State educational institution's library though I did receive the book from Raritan Valley Community College in New Jersey. In comparison, Tesla had 7 biographies just in the Portland Library, 1 non-fiction movie, and 3 children's books.

Biography: Bly, Robert W. Charles Proteus Steinmetz: The Electrical Wizard of Schenectady. Quill Driver Books, 2018.  

The biography is quite respectable. It was written by an chemical engineer and spends as much time explaining electricity--so the reader can comprehend and respect Steinmetz's achievements--as discussing Steinmetz himself. This is less distracting than it sounds. Quite often biographies of this type--a "biography" of Shakespeare that spends more time on Elizabethan politics than on Shakespeare or his plays--are irritating in the extreme, but Bly is placing Steinmetz in context while underscoring his accomplishments. I actually began to understand electricity--as more than a magic switch, anyway--while I was reading. 

Steinmetz

Steinmetz himself comes across as The Lord of the Rings persona of John Rhys-Davies. They are rather like the conservative and socialist version of a similar personality: rational, down-to-earth, family-oriented, willing to endorse certain types of activism, unafraid without being belligerent. And Steinmetz was four feet and hunchback--and a mathematical genius (an outlier), so...

The Lord of the Rings persona of John Rhys-Davies. 

Steinmetz's abilities were acknowledged early on. The company he worked at after immigrating to the U.S., E&O, was bought out by GE in order for GE to get Steinmetz. He knew and interacted with nearly all of the great scientists and inventors of his age. 

Before I discuss Steinmetz's mathematical genius, I must mention that he was a science writer when he first arrived in the United States. Later, he wrote all his own proposals, and they are remarkably clear even if one doesn't "get" the science.  (Bly reproduces one of his patent descriptions.) 

As well as a good writer, Steinmetz was a true mathematical genius. Bly states, "[M]any educators and professionals agree that students and practitioners with a mastery of higher mathematics have a big advantage over those who are less at home with numbers and equations" (47). 

In terms of Steinmetz's contributions, Bly does a great job placing him in context, but he doesn't always complete the context. Steinmetz helped establish the electric power grid. Okay, I get it, and I know what it is--but how about wrapping up that accomplishment?

I suspect that Bly, an engineer, imagines that the accomplishment is self-explanatory.

The one place where Bly does take Steinmetz's contribution/invention all the way to the end is with the Steinmetz Lightning Machine. He points out that this machine--and machines based on its principles--enable engineers now to do safer, reliable testing. 

Steinmetz had a sense of humor. To garner attention for his machine, he 

constructed a miniature model village out of wood, similar in size, scope, and appearance to the tiny towns that model railroad enthusiasts set up around the train tracks. Then he built a 120,000-volt lightning generator and positioned it about the model town. [He] advertised his demonstration. When members of the public were seated, he darkened the room, [f]lipped the generator switch. [S]hortly thereafter the generator hanging form the ceiling produced a miniature lightning storm that destroyed the model village in rather spectacular fashion. (92)

He once charged Ford $10,000 for fixing one of his engines. When Ford complained, Steinmetz itemized his bill (page 108): 

Making chalk mark on the generator [where it needed to be fixed]: $1 

Knowing where to make the mark: $9,999

Total: $10,000

Steinmetz's adopted descendants. Article here

In some ways, Steinmetz was the stereotypical  genius in his lab. He had a lab at GE. He had one at his nearby home. However, Bly challenges 

(1) the idea of the isolated genius.

Steinmetz adopted his lab assistant, Hayden Joseph LeRoy, whose family lived with him until his death. Their children and progeny are considered Steinmetz's grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren; 

(2) the idea that the supposedly isolated genius has no other interests.

Steinmetz had many interests. He loved kids. He taught at Union College. He extolled the idea of the "Renaissance Man." He grew cacti and orchids (Nero Wolfe!). He had pet reptiles. He enjoyed nature, such as canoeing. He was a bit of a prankster. He was part of a poker club called "The Society of the Equalization of Engineers' Salaries."

He was also a socialist, which may seem contradicted by his employment by a huge corporation. He was paid well though not as well as he could have demanded. But Steinmetz, like many leftists (only Steinmetz was more honest), perceived the big "parental" corporation as the answer to society's ills. He was very happy at GE.  

A thoroughly amazing guy! And well-deserving of a hero's adulation in Schenectady and beyond.