Tim Parks wonders why literary biographers tend to present their subjects “as simply the most gifted and well-meaning of writers, while their behavior, however problematic and possibly outrageous … is invariably described in a flattering light”:
Returning … to these over-generous biographies, and to the constant insinuation of academe that
writers are talented laborers in a good cause, one can only assume that they are satisfying a general need to reinforce a positive conception of narrative art, thus bolstering the self-esteem of readers, and even more of critics and biographers, who inwriting about literature are likewise contributing to the very same good causes. Authors themselves, though often contradicting this positive image in private (Dickens frequently acknowledged that certain negative characters in his books were based on himself), soon learn how to play the part. Beckett must have been aware of how those famous author photos, suggesting a lean, suffering asceticism, fed the public’s perception of an austere and virtuous separateness. “How easy,” wrote Beckett’s friend Emil Cioran, “to imagine him … in a naked cell, undisturbed by the least decoration, not even a crucifix.” Actually Beckett was sharing a spacious flat in central Paris with lifetime companion Suzanne, spending weekends and summers with her in their country cottage, but drinking heavily with friends (never Suzanne) most evenings and generally making time for mistresses when possible.
(Image: Caricature of Beckett by by Edmund S. Valtman via Wikimedia Commons)
The Dish 
